


Rain Dogs

by degradedpsychotic



Category: Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Character Death, Cult worship, Drug Use, Lots of bad things, M/M, Multi, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt, also pre-t damien in a few beginning chapters, cult!joseph, i'm serious kids, the slowest burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2018-12-23 02:11:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 77,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11979897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/degradedpsychotic/pseuds/degradedpsychotic
Summary: We've always been out of our minds. The rum pours strong and thin. Beat out the dustman with the rain dogs aboard a shipwreck train. Give my umbrella to the Rain Dogs;      for I am a Rain Dog too.(Robert Small just wanted to be happy.)





	1. Innocent When You Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Looks at all my other unfinished fics................. Wellp.  
> Here's another one! I just gotta get on the Dream Daddy train before it leaves the relevance station.
> 
> [The song for this chapter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x6KkJ6-Ecxw)
> 
> This chapter is more of a prologue of sorts. The chapters will get longer from here on out.

Moving out of Brooklyn has been a long time coming. It was always a goal, taped onto an old tomato soup can where spare change went. **The Get the Fuck Out Fund**. It started with good intentions, with Marilyn’s fingers rolling up coin to make room for even more once a month… But then hands started dipping into it. Val needs new shoes. We need groceries. Rent’s late. Good, solid excuses. They worked overtime to make up for it. Marilyn got a second job, even. Robert switched to third shifts at the factory.

But then the excuses were less well-intended.

The dealer needs their money. We’re out of whiskey. Gotta buy another lottery ticket. Bar tabs. Whores. Weed. Cocaine.  Heroin .

The can was empty.

But it’s been years now, and a savings bond has matured from Marilyn’s late parents. Robert’s trying to be sober and he’s a month into it when Marilyn comes home from her night shift at the diner to slap a torn piece of a real estate magazine on her husband’s chest, startling him from the snooze he was catching during some old reruns of Seinfeld.

“I found our place.”

He makes a face when she turns the light on to flop next to him, leaning against his arm to rest her head on his shoulder. Picking up the paper, it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust, and when he does, he gives a little hum. “Maple Bay?”

“It’s Massachusetts, right on the water. It’s a quaint town… Not a big city. And this house; it’s in a cul-de-sac. White fences and everything.”

He scoffs, though he does admit that the black and white photo of the house is charming. “Are we really white picket fence people?”

She nuzzles into his shoulder, her curls tickling his jaw. “We can be. I’ve already been looking for jobs there, y’know. There’s some good-paying stuff.”

“White picket fences and a good-paying job.” He exhales, leaning into his wife as he looks at the price. “And cheap.”

“Mhm. It’s a foreclosure. Bit of fixing-up and it’ll be all ours.” She shifts, pecking a kiss to his cheek. “No more apartment. A  _ house _ , Rob. A house that we can call  _ ours _ .”

They spend a week debating on it. Robert calls the real estate agent to ask a list of questions Marilyn came up with, does a bit of research on the town, and they come to a mutual decision at four in the morning on a Tuesday.

“Rob… Let’s make an offer.”

They agree to do so in the evening, but they have one more obstacle before the decision is set in stone. Marilyn makes blueberry pancakes and sausage, and Robert is nursing fresh brewed coffee in a chipped mug when their daughter wakes up for school.

She freezes in the entryway, dark eyes immediately suspicious. She’s still in her pajamas, her hair a mess from sleep. Yet her eyes are sharp, settling on Robert. “Dad, are you going to jail again?”

Marilyn opens her mouth to scold her, but Robert shoots back a smooth reply without even looking up at her. He’s flipping through the papers the real estate agent sent him.  “Child Protective Services called. They’re taking you away.”

Val mutters something that sounds like a “thank  _ god _ ” as she grabs a mug to fill with coffee and a copious amount of milk. Marilyn sighs as she flips the last of the pancakes onto a platter.

“We got something to tell you, sweetie.”

She frowns as her mother delivers the pancakes to their card table of a dining room, and it only sours when Robert pushes away his things to help set the table. “Are you going to tell me you’re aliens that have freshly possessed the flesh vessels of my parents?”

“Valerie.”

She groans at her mother’s tone, but sits. She drags a couple pancakes and bacon onto her plate, not one to skip out on an actual breakfast when it presents itself, though her eyes keep flickering between her parents. “So…?”

Robert nudges the papers to her as Marilyn speaks. She’s always been better at that anyway.

“Me and your father are going to be moving after you graduate. I know you’ve already applied to some schools, but consider some in Massachusetts. We’ll be moving to Maple Bay.”

Valerie arches a brow as she chews on overcooked bacon, but says nothing. Marilyn takes the hint and continues.

“We didn’t want to move until now because we didn’t want to take you out of school. This house… It’s in a very nice neighborhood, sweetie, and it’s an actual  _ house _ . There’s only one bedroom, but we can easily build onto it for you. If you--”

“I’m moving in with my girlfriend after commencement.”

Robert chokes on his coffee. Marilyn goes perfectly still, taking time to process this, but her lag in a reply gives Robert time to speak up.

“When the fuck did you get a girlfriend?”

“When you said I couldn’t have a boyfriend, duh.” She stabs a pancake and hot, melted blueberry guts ooze out of it like blood.

“For how long?”

“Two years.”

It’s Marilyn’s turn to splutter. She looks pale. Robert slams a hand on the table, hard enough to cause a few drops of Val’s half-milk half-coffee concoction to splatter onto the table.

“Two fucking years?! You never told us! You never introduced us! What the hell--”

Val stands abruptly, gripping the edge of the table to hide the way she’s shaking. She’s yelling. “As if you give a shit! This is the longest we’ve even been in the same fucking room together in years, dad!”

Marilyn grabs Robert’s forearm, but she’s losing control of the situation. Robert stays sitting, but he’s red in the face as he shouts back. Their neighbors are definitely hearing this.

“You hole up in your fucking room all the time!”

“Yeah, because you’re always drunk or high or  _ something _ , and I don’t wanna deal with that!”

“I’ve been sober for a month!”

Val scoffs, spit flying. “Oh,  _ sorry _ ! A month out of eighteen years of my  _ goddamn life _ !”

“Valerie Rose--” Marilyn is immediately interrupted. She looks frantic.

Valerie’s eyes are wild, and she shoves the pile of pictures onto the floor in a mess. “Move! I don’t care! Where you gonna find your dealers around there, huh? It doesn’t matter to me! You’re dying either way! May as well do it as far from me as you can! Fuck you!”

Marilyn stands as Valerie storms back into her room, the door slamming so hard that the frame cracks. She looks at a total loss as she turns back to Robert, only to find him grabbing his jacket.

“Where are you--”

“The bar.”

Her face hardens and she stands in front of the door. She’s much smaller than him, but she doesn’t care. “No. Rob, you’re a month clean. Don’t do this.”

“She’s right,” he manages, unable to meet her eyes. “Maybe moving will change things, Lyn, but I gotta go right now. I can’t… do this.”

“It’s seven in the morning.”

“Then I’ll go find Tim.”

Marilyn grabs his hands in hers, squeezing them tight. Tim had been the dealer that got him hooked on heroin. He only just beat that last year. Tim was the closest thing to a devil Marilyn's ever seen. A murderer, even. “No. No, honey. You’re not going back to Tim. You’re staying here.”

He’s shaking. He still can’t look at her, because his eyes are prickling. He won’t look at her, even though she’s seen him worse. Much, much worse. “We can’t move… We can’t fuck this up…”

She moves to hold him, a tiny woman bringing a grown man to cling to her like a child. She rubs his back, sways lightly with him. “Shh, shh… I think this is best for us. We gotta get out of this place… It’s killing you.”

“Gonna die anyw--”

She cuts him off with a tight squeeze. “You're gonna die when you’ve gone gray and old on me, baby. We gonna be in rocking chairs on our back porch, looking out at white picket fences.”

He laughs to cover a sob.

“Let’s go to bed, Robbie. We’ll call the agent later and make our offer. We’re gonna get that house.”

“Breakfast in bed?”

She smiles, pecking a kiss to his cheek when he heaves with a final sigh. “Breakfast in bed.”

The offer, unsurprisingly, goes through. They have thirty days to move in, to accommodate their request of staying for their daughter’s commencement exercises and leaving the apartment for her with two months of rent paid up-front. Valerie avoids them as she typically does, but after she’s walked across some rented stage at an old concert hall, she can’t avoid them anymore. They’ve watched her leave for school every day with a new box, and before the ceremony, Robert had peeked into her room to confirm his fears. Everything was gone.

Marilyn is dressed to the nines for the ceremony, and Robert feels horribly underdressed beside her in the closest thing to a suit he could find. But he’s not complaining; Marilyn's little black dress is more fit for a night out than a high school commencement, and he’s already told her at length how excited he is to get her out of it.

Valerie walks across the stage to polite applause and both of her parents standing and screaming for her. Robert might be crying, but he’d never admit it. And now they’re here, waiting in a throng of emotional parents for their daughter to fight through the crowd to find them.

She does, still in her navy blue cap and gown, but there’s a woman with an arm around her waist beside her. She’s in dress slacks and a sleeveless blouse, exposing intricate inkwork against her lighter skin. Hair bleached and cut short, she radiates everything Robert would assume a lesbian would, and when Valerie speaks, she directs it at her mother.

“This is Rachel. I’m moving in with her tomorrow.”

Rachel flashes a smile, though there’s muted malice behind it. She holds Valerie a little tighter to her side, earning a rare smile. “Hey, Mrs. Small.”

“How old are you?” Robert cuts across, Marilyn still struggling to reign in the urge to fight her daughter’s decision. 

Rachel doesn’t miss a beat. “Twenty.”

Marilyn stiffens. She knows it’s only a couple years of difference, but that also means an eighteen year old was dating their sixteen year old daughter, and they’re already close enough to move in, so they must have--

One of Valerie’s friends calls out to her, and she’s quick to turn and make a beeline for them. Rachel hesitates, as if she wants to say something, but Valerie pulls her along and soon they’re both gone into the crowd.

Marilyn suddenly chokes out a sob.

Robert is quick to hold her, and she presses her face to his chest. They both know that was it. That was the only goodbye they would get. Sure, Valerie might be back to the apartment to get a few last-minute things, but their daughter is already gone. Marilyn had been the closest to her, had been the only one that could even hold a decent conversation with Valerie even on her hardest days. And just like that… she left.

The guilt isn’t by any means new, but it gnaws at his stomach just the same. Maybe if he had been a better father, a better husband, a better  _ man _ … Valerie wouldn’t be like this. Maybe they could be like the happy families on TV or at least have good communication. Maybe Valerie could look him in the eye when she says the word “dad”. But it’s too late for that now. Eighteen years too late.

If Valerie ever comes back in the week they have before the move, Robert doesn’t see her. She must have at some point, however, because Marilyn seems less depressed about the whole ordeal. She’s excited when they rent their Uhaul, when they hook it up to Robert’s old truck after stuffing their relatively little belongings into it. Marilyn will follow him in her old BMW on the four hour drive north to their new home in Maple Bay. They get there at an ungodly hour of the morning, before the sun is even up, but they have their things in the house and the Uhaul returned by seven and they make a bed out of the blankets Marilyn had in the BMW to sleep on the floor.

It takes about a week for them to get all the way unpacked. Marilyn has already started her new job as a secretary at a dentist office, and Robert is working third shift at a manufacturing plant. They only cross paths in the morning and evening for a few precious hours, but they still find time to thoroughly break in their bed together and experiment in their new, larger kitchen.

“You know, this yard would be perfect for a dog.”

Marilyn says it over a glass of iced tea, both of them seated on the second floor balcony and looking out behind their house. It’s five in the morning, and the neighborhood is quiet. Birds and bugs and  _ nature _ take up the silence, and it’s such a stark contrast to traffic and sirens that they both cried the first time they heard it.

“Yeah?” Robert grins, kicking his feet up to rest on the half wall. “I guess we’re empty nesters now. Gotta adopt about six dogs, three cats, and a fish. We better get started.”

She hums thoughtfully, masterfully playing along. “Don’t forget the local school. We have to volunteer our time there to get a daily dose of children. Bake sales, car washes, the whole nine yards.”

“Then we’ll learn that kids are way too much work, and we’ll adopt our seventh dog and call it even.”

“But not before we each gain twenty pounds from eating at said bake sales.”

Robert giggles, reaching over to poke his wife’s side. She squirms, ticklish, and nearly spills her drink. “I won’t say no to more of this.”

“I dunno, Rob. I might have to divorce you if you get a belly. You know I love those chiseled abs.”

“You wound me, truly. So shallow.”

She hums, sticking her tongue out. “We always hurt the ones we love.”

The first month of their time in Maple Bay is so ridiculously relaxing and enjoyable that Robert swears his cheeks will permanently ache from smiling. They toss around the idea of a dog seriously for a while, but never do much about it aside from Marilyn announcing that she likes the name _Betsy_. Their schedules are a bit too odd to try to take care of something that needs to go outside to piss several times a day. A cat would be more their speed, but they both agree litter boxes are annoying and smelly. 

Marilyn has already met all the neighbors while Robert lives his nocturnal schedule and doesn’t see much of anyone. She isn’t one to gossip, though one morning while they’re enjoying iced tea and the relative quiet of midsummer, she speaks up.

“The neighbors invited us to a cookout on Saturday.”

Robert lifts a brow. “Free food?”

She grins. “Free food.”

And it’s settled, just like that. Robert has Friday off, so he can start altering his sleep enough to be awake for the two o’clock burgers. While Marilyn’s off at work, he decides to try cooking, turning the living room TV loud enough to the food network as he tries to replicate a fancy shrimp dish. It’s going just about as well as one could expect, and he eventually gives up and rummages around until he finds a box mix of carrot cake and makes that instead.

He’s flipping through channels as he waits for the oven to go off when he realizes what time it is. It’s almost eight, and Marilyn should have been home an hour ago. He frowns, wondering if she’s just stopping off to buy some groceries because she knows Robert’s attempt at cooking will fail. She’s always been weirdly psychic like that.

Eight thirty is ticking by as he whips up sour cream frosting to put on a deflated-looking carrot cake, and he’s about to call her when she beats him to the punch, phone lighting up and vibrating on the counter. He dusts his hands off from powdered sugar before he answers, voice light despite the worry that’s been clawing at him.

“Hey, babe. Making funeral preparations for these poor shrimp? We’re gonna need a lot of very tiny headstones and matching coffins. We can invite the frozen fish filets to the service.”

The voice that answers is female, but it’s not Marilyn’s. “Um... Is this Robert Small?”

He frowns. Did she lose her phone? That would explain it. She’s attached to the hip to the thing. Probably been driving all over town to find it. “Yeah, who’s this?”

“I’m a nurse up at Maple Bay General Hospital. You were listed in Marilyn Small’s phone as an emergency contact.”

His heart drops and suddenly he’s very, very cold. “What… What happened? Is she okay? What’s going on?”

The nurse speaks quickly, trying to cut him off before he can ramble. “She was in a car accident a little over an hour ago. She’s been in surgery, but her state is still unstable and critical. I apologize for not calling you sooner; we had to break into her phone to get past her lock code.”

He nearly drops the phone, his other hand clinging to the counter. He feels like he’s going to pass out. “Wh… What…?”

“We would like you to come up to the hospital, Mr. Small. Things aren’t looking good. When you get here, tell the front desk that Alisha called you. They’ll tell you where to go.”

Robert doesn’t even know where the hospital  _ is _ , but he finds it by getting onto the interstate and following those big blue H signs. He feels like he’s suspended, unable to hear anything beyond the pound of his heart and the rush of blood in his ears. He snaps at the front desk when they ask if he needs medical attention, though he’s certain that he’s probably having a heart attack. He tells them what Alisha said, and one of the nurses looks pale as she runs to fetch a doctor.

The doctor comes out, looking grim. Robert knows exactly what she’s going to say before she says it. But that doesn't mean he isn't going to make a scene and demand to see her. He spots one of the nurses, Alisha maybe, crying. He's probably crying too. The doctor looks almost  _numb_ at all of this. As if it's normal. Usual. Just another Friday.

Marilyn is dead.


	2. Heart Attack and Vine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, we get to see some familiar faces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work will update every Friday, schedule willing. You can check my [tumblr](https://degraded-psychotic.tumblr.com) for notifications.
> 
>  
> 
> [The song for this chapter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YL3ccwVVg5A)

The week after Marilyn’s death is the toughest seven days of Robert’s life. It’s haggling with insurance companies, though the automotive is easy enough. The BMW was so smashed that there was no way of getting it back. Robert is honestly surprised that Marilyn even survived long enough to get to the hospital. He gets life insurance money, a pity package of three grand from Marilyn’s employer… But he gets fired at his own job. He misses work, and an angry call from his boss tells him not to bother coming back. He doesn’t give an excuse. He just accepts it. The funeral is arranged down in Brooklyn, and he sees Valerie again there. She gets up and says some emotional words about how strong and hard working her mother was, and she’s in tears when she sits back down. It’s the first time in years that she’s let Robert hug her. But after the teary affair and picking out urns to split Marilyn’s ashes between the two of them, Rachel comes and drives Valerie home without saying a word to Robert.

He entertains the idea of staying in their old apartment, a couple weeks still left in the rent they had prepaid. But that’s just too tough, and he drives his old pickup back to Maple Bay. The carrot cake that he hasn’t bothered to clean up has attracted ants, so he just throws the damn thing over the back fence for nature to have its way with it.

It’s on the eighth day that he caves. That at eleven o’clock at night, he’s standing outside a dive bar titled  _ Jim and Kim’s _ . That he’s stuffing his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and trudging inside.

It’s moderately busy for a Saturday night as he sits on a plastic barstool. The bartender opens his mouth to ask what he wants, but he’s already blurted it out. Whiskey. No ice.

He almost made it three months. He decides that’s good enough as he knocks back the lukewarm poison and orders another. It burns hard going down, but he relishes the feeling. It brings warmth to his chest where he’s only felt cold, and he’s on his third round when a woman leans close to him at the bar.

“Hey, sailor.”

He had been staring blankly at the TV, trying to decipher sports highlights from an earlier golf game. Honestly, where there  _ any _ highlights from golf? So when he turns to the woman, it’s a bit delayed, and he finds a mostly empty wine glass in her hand. She looks just about as drunk as he is.

“Buy a gal a drink?”

He knows a flirt when he sees one, and he knows he’s not interested in that right now. But the possibility of actual social interaction is too tempting, and he flags down the bartender (Neil, he’s learned his name is) and orders the woman and himself a round of Jack and Coke. She’s raises a brow at him, but slams it down regardless. She burps, earning an exhale that sort of sounds like a laugh from Robert.

“Name’s Mary. You look new.”

He shrugs, looking into his glass. “Moved in ‘bout a month ago to the cul-de-sac down the street.”

Mary’s eyes light up with drunken recognition. “You were the asshole moving in at four in the morning?”

He grins, raising his glass in a mock salute. “Robert Small. Pleasure.”

“Alright, Rob--”

His mood immediately sours. He feels cold. “Don’t call me that.” He drinks, if only to renew the warmth. “Just Robert.”

Mary blinks, but slides to sit beside him regardless. “Alright,  _ Just Robert _ , since you bought me a drink, I guess I gotta keep you company.”

Neil hesitates when Robert waves for another whiskey, but obliges. He’s already pretty far gone, and he isn’t driving, so whatever. 

“Why you hittin’ on me with a damn ring on yer finger?” Oh great, his words are slurring. Whatever.

Mary laughs, inspecting the simple band. “You know how it is. Old ball and chain. Things get boring, yeah?”

Robert says nothing. Mary picks up on his souring mood and puts her purse on the counter.

“I got two fat blunts in my purse. You look like you need one.”

Well, that gets his attention. “There’s a dealer around here?”

“Yup.”

A pause, Robert trying to arrange words in his head before speaking them. “He got anything else than weed?”

Mary looks a bit taken aback, but covers it quickly with a wicked grin. “Never asked. Wanna go out back and light up?”

He slams his whiskey down. “HELL YEAH!”

Neil nearly drops the glass he’s cleaning at the outburst, but Mary laughs, hard and deep.

“Jesus, Robert! Inside voice!”

He giggles a bit, standing with an unsteady sway. “Sorry, sorry. Hell yeah,” he stage whispers.

In all honesty, he can’t remember the rest of the night. All he knows is that he wakes up on his bedroom floor with an empty bag of Doritoes and a half-empty bottle of wine. He reeks of weed and his head is slamming with pain. He half-crawls to the bathroom to vomit, only to find that he must have already done so and forgotten to flush earlier. The sun’s up and it hurts his eyes, so he hides out for the day in the bathroom, drinking from the sink tap and dry heaving between sobs at the realization of what he’s doing.

It’s only the start.

He checks his phone to find a few texts from a contact titled MARY <3 giving him the name and number of a local dealer. She says to text him, and he does, and by the time the sun is setting and his stomach is empty, a guy named Lars says he’ll meet him behind a strip mall sex shop with a teener of cocaine and four fat blunts. He meets him in the same dirty clothes he had on the night before and empties his wallet for him, leaving with a couple plastic baggies in his coat pockets.

He meets Lars once a week. He burns through the cash he had hidden in his sock drawer in a month. He meets Mary every Saturday night to get absolutely shit faced, smoke weed, and wakes up in increasingly odd places, including once in the bathroom of some concert venue called The Sound Garden where an incredibly handsome, yet awkward, man helps him find his way home.

The highs are great, but the lows… God. The lows are the lowest he’s ever been. He doesn’t eat, hardly sleeps despite being in bed most days, and when he runs out of coke or weed, he’s whittling designs into his hands and watching the blood flow against his skin to soak into the wood. It’s bad, he’s doing so bad, but he refuses to acknowledge it. He shoplifts petty shit like lighters or those cheap, miniature boxes of wine. He slits a guy’s tires when he calls him a pathetic drunk. He goes to some rager party with Lars and gets so high that he sets fire to a cop car with a fucking molotov. He doesn't get caught though, so he must not have been  _that_ drunk.

He’s lost track of time when he finds himself at the edge of a pier, teetering with his drunken high. He knows he can’t swim, never has been able to. And there’s a storm coming, so the tide’s wicked. He could just…

Fall…

The next thing he knows, he’s being hauled onto a boat launch by a pair of very strong arms and a very bare chest. He fades again, waking to lying on a California king in a room that looks ripped straight from a Playboy photoshoot. The sun’s out and it hurts, it hurts  _ bad _ , but he endures it because there’s a man at the foot of the bed that’s currently in the process of changing into day clothes and  _ shit _ , he’s got a nice ass--

He promptly pretends to be asleep when he sees the man start to turn around.

There’s a deep breath once he’s done dressing, and he feels the bed dip down beside him. A beat of silence before he feels the back of a hand pressed to his forehead, and he suddenly comes to the realization that beneath these Egyptian cotton sheets, he’s completely naked.

“Are you awake?”

He cracks an eye open to find what may be the most perfect looking human being he’s ever seen. Pale skin tanned slightly from the sun, blue eyes like the ocean, and blond hair slightly ruffled where it's combed over. Unfortunately he’s dressed now in a stupid pink polo shirt and khakis, but Robert still has the image of that toned back and ass in his head. His aching,  _ aching _ head. Fuck.

He opens his mouth to speak, to ask what’s going on, but a noise like a beached whale comes out instead. The other man gives a good natured chuckle.

“Take it easy. My name is Joseph, and you’re on my yacht. I found you almost drowning last night. Erm, early this morning, I suppose. You've been out for over an hour. I was about to take you to emergency.”

Robert groans, head heavy against the pillow. He's still high. Dammit. But he's on a yacht. He can cross that off his bucket list. His throat kills, though, and he can't do much other than groan again.

The man offers him a bottle of water from the bedside table. “You need some water. Why did you decide to swim in your clothes at four o’clock anyway?”

He clears his throat a couple times despite the burn to answer, shifting to sit up with his back to the headboard. The blankets slide into his lap, and he swears he sees Joseph's stupid pretty blues flash down for a moment. “Kinda hoped I'd drown.”

Joseph's smile drops. “Why would you want that? Suicide is never the answer…”

Robert takes a sip out of the water bottle in an attempt to stall, but the taste of it has him gagging. A pale hand snatches the bottle before he drops it, and Robert spends a moment fighting a cough and the urge to vomit. “Fuck, what is that?!”

Blue eyes blink, perplexed. “...water?”

Fuck, he's high.

He hands the bottle back to him, ignoring the sour expression Robert gives it. “I'm a youth minister in town. I offer counseling services too, should you ever need them. I would recommend talking to a professional first, though.”

He scowls. Marilyn had always suggested that, but he never went. Insisted he was fine. Now… Logically, he knows he should. His grief is eating him alive. 

But something about the fact that a youth minister saved him from the sweet embrace of death at the mercy of the ocean at four in the morning is hilarious to him, and soon he's laughing so hard that he sends himself into a painful coughing attack.

Joseph looks at a total loss until Robert recovers, gasping breaths through weak giggles. “Are you high?”

Robert grins at him, raising his bottle in a mock toast. “As high as you are sexy, handsome.”

He blushes. Robert snickers.

“Can I at least ask your name…?” Joseph tries after a moment, when it's clear Robert isn't about to expand on what he's high on. He isn't even sure. 

“‘s Robert.”

Joseph suddenly sobers with realization,  a hand resting on Robert's bare shoulder. “You were Marilyn’s husband?”

He scoffs, though his eyes prickle. He takes another sip of water and makes a face at it. “Guess she finally ran outta patience with me.”

“No, Robert, it was an accident. I'm very sorry I couldn't make it to the funeral. She was a lovely woman.” He gives a remorseful sort of smile, squeezing Robert's shoulder softly. Reassuring. 

She was a lovely woman, wasn't she? Sure, the last month had been heaven, but they had their own share of hell. Fighting, screaming, crying… How many times was Robert forced to sleep on the couch? In his truck? How many times had he come back smelling like cheap whores and made her cry? How many times did she try and try and try to get him to open up? To give up his vices?

She's gone now. Now no one can nag him, berate him, lecture him…

But no one can love him, either.

Robert's brain isn't all there to keep focused on one thing, though, and he's violently pulled from his thoughts by the realization that it isn't the coke or weed that's making him think he's swaying. He's on a boat. That refresh of knowledge makes the swaying worse, and the only warning before he leans over and vomits onto the floor is a little whimper of “fuck” between pursed lips.

When he opens his eyes to look at the mess, Joseph is on his feet in a mild panic. Especially because the only thing he threw up was stomach bile, and he smells something sharply metallic as his nose starts to bleed. Shit. He’s a fucking mess.

“Robert, I'm taking you to the hospital.”

The hand that has still managed to hold onto his bottle raises to press knuckles against his nostrils, as if he can hide the leaking blood. His other hand has a death grip on the edge of the mattress, and he's terrified that if he lets go, he's going to fall face first into his own vomit.

“I don't do hospitals,” he manages, voice strained with the newfound pain in his throat and the fact that it's half muffled. “Just get me off this fucking boat.”

Joseph, bless his youth minister heart, doesn't argue. He helps Robert dress in his damp clothes before leaving him on the boardwalk. He looks hesitant to leave him, but given that Robert's legs have decided to check out and he's sitting solidly on his ass, he knows he won't be going anywhere while he cleans up the mess in the cabin of the _Saint Peter_.

Three things occur to Robert as he sits there, listening to the waves and waking gulls. One, Joseph's yacht is  _ big. _ Granted, he's never seen a yacht before, but any boat that has multiple floors is big. 

Second, the sun is rising and painting diluted stormclouds a gentle orange. The sun reflects and refracts off of the waves, almost blinding him. It's beautiful, really…

The third realization has him patting his leather jacket as if checking to see if he still has a body under it. He finds what he's after, and an audible sigh of relief leaves him. He's still got an eight ball left of cocaine, thank fuck. He can't afford to lose that shit in the ocean.

He hears Joseph coming out of the yacht and quickly stashes it back away, trying to ignore the way salt water makes his clothes stick to him. Even his  _ underwear _ is gross and tacky, and while he’s gone horridly long times between laundry loads before, he can’t stand this much longer. At least Joseph has brought a towel with him, and Robert trades it for his stupid bottle of water to huddle in, body still refusing to stand.

“I can drive you home,” Joseph offers, but Robert sees what he wants. He wants to send Robert to the hospital. But he has no desire to go back there, to see sympathetic nurses and a teary-eyed doctor telling him that his wife is dead, sorry, she was hemorrhaging too bad and went into cardiac arrest and there was nothing we could do for her. No. Robert will not go to a hospital.

There’s a long, almost comedic pause from the minister as Robert tries to stand, grabbing a post along the boardwalk to try to help himself up into vertical position. Despite the boardwalk being firmly cemented in the underwater sand and not left to the way of the waves, he still feels like everything is swaying as he takes a step. Joseph reaches to catch him, but he swats at those offending hands, taking a deep breath to clear his head as he tucks the pastel blue towel around himself and walks like a human being. A hungover human being, but at least he’s on two legs that can follow Joseph’s lead into the adjoining parking lot without fear of toppling over into the water. He manages to pull his phone from his pocket, and after rubbing it down with the towel, it seems to be just fine. There aren’t any texts or missed calls, though. Not that he expected any.

The blank screen reminds him that he needs to call Val. He still hasn’t the heart to go through Marilyn’s things (he hasn’t even opened the closet doors yet) and he knows Val can fit into her clothes, so… maybe she’ll want a few things. Besides, going through his dead wife’s belongings feels a little better if he doesn’t have to do it by himself. He knows his relationship with Val is strained, always has been, but since Marilyn’s death, he’s been starved for any interaction with her. Though, he cringes every time he opens up their text thread. It’s all him, drunk or stoned and begging for a second chance, for her to move in, to help… And no reply. Not since she texted him to ask for the funeral home address. It’s enough to sober him up, if only a little.

He’s so deep in thought that he runs into Joseph when he stops to unlock a minivan. A fucking  _ minivan _ . But strong arms steady him, and he finds himself staring at the slightest hint of a tattoo under the sleeve of his polo. An anchor, maybe?

“Whoa there. You’re sure you’re okay?”

He scoffs, shrugging off the hands that he really wants to hold him. Anyone, please, just  _ hold _ him before he falls apart. “Been worse. I won’t say no to a ride home, though.” Jeans chafe like hell when they’re wet, and he can already feel the awkward burn in all the creases. “Didn’t take you for a soccer mom.”

Joseph laughs, opening the passenger door for him. He hovers closeby as Robert gets in, handing him his water once he’s buckled up. “I only have one son, and he’s almost two. You can never be too prepared, though.”

Robert blinks. This guy doesn’t have a ring; single dad? Eh, whatever. Not his problem. 

He shrugs, his expression a mixture that Robert can’t identify. “I won’t talk about it. I know family is probably touchy for you right now.”

Not really. Just Marilyn is a touchy subject. Honestly, digging his nose into this guy’s business could make for a nice distraction. Not as nice as the high that’s rapidly fading, but still. Maybe Mary’s turning him into a fucking gossiping housewife. The horror.

Joseph crosses to the driver’s side, and there are several things about this van that make Robert uncomfortable as it rumbles smoothly out of a parallel parking spot like he’s done this a million times. One, there’s a rosary dangling from the rear view mirror. That’s fine and all, but there’s also one clipped to the passenger visor, and another one pooled in a cupholder. The radio station is turned to one of the only three stations they get in Maple Bay; Christian. It’s not gospel, no. Robert can handle gospel. It’s just some Christian talk show with monotone voices sharing heart-wrenching stories about the Power of Christ or something like that. The van also smells disgustingly like those Fresh Linen candles, and there’s a plethora of toys taking up the backseat. Robert swears he sees a Jesus action figure.

This could be a very symbolic moment for him. Saved from death by a minister, delivered to his home in this Jesus-vomit… A salvation for a sinner like him. Yet he’s just shivering acutely beneath his towel, staring out the window at the passing town. They turn into the cul-de-sac soon enough, and Robert is quietly impressed at his stoned self for having walked this far.

Joseph stops at Robert’s house, eying the man suspiciously. On their ride, he’s only managed two sips of water, but at least he hasn’t vomited. He considers that a success. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Robert groans, wrestling with his seatbelt. “I swear to fucking christ, if you ask me that again, I’m punching you in the goddamn jaw.”

Joseph seems mildly put-out by his language, but Robert doesn’t stay for a lecture. He leaves the towel on his seat and roots in his pockets for his keys. He pulls him out and heads onto his porch, and only when he gets the door open does Joseph pull away to pull into the driveway next door.

“I’ll bring some soup over,” he calls across the lawn, but Robert has already slammed the door shut.

Robert loses track of time. All he knows is that one day the mailman brings him both the package with the urn holding half his wife’s ashes and his and Marilyn’s new driver’s licenses on the same day. He pockets his and cuts up the old New York one, but he can’t even bring himself to open the envelope Marilyn’s rests in. He just tosses it in a half-packed box of her things and kicks it under the bed. The urn goes out on the balcony so she can see the sunrises and sunsets.

But really, that’s as productive as he gets. He only gets out of his house to meet Lars on a weekly basis, and the first time he steps outside, there’s a grocery bag with ten cans of Campbell’s soup and a note from Joseph, wishing him well and giving him a cell phone number if he ever needs to talk. He throws it out but keeps the soup. He doesn’t really eat it, though; whiskey and weed seem to be his meals. He orders pizza a couple times, but always ends up throwing it up.

Days bleed to weeks as he contemplates throwing himself back into the ocean. He has plenty of knives he could do damage with; just slit his own fucking throat. He could easily overdose, easily drink himself into oblivion. He could go the slow route and starve himself to death. If he ever gets sober enough to tie a knot, he could hang himself. But he doesn’t do any of that. He doesn’t deserve to die. He deserves to suffer.

Eighteen years ago, he married Marilyn out of wedlock. It was what you did when you knocked a girl up when the both of you were only nineteen. Hell, that was how his own parents got hitched. Having a distant father was better than not having one at all, and Robert took Marilyn to the court house to sign off on the papers. No ceremony, no wedding dress, no cake, no honeymoon, nothing. He always knew she was bitter about it. Every year around their anniversary, for the first few years, she would conveniently leave out bridal magazines. Places to go that offered vow renewals. Tux rentals. She stopped when she found out about the drugs. The booze. The whores. That the depression that didn’t necessarily have a root and the guilt over a wedlock marriage he didn’t really want were only feeding a growing fire inside of him that would eat him alive. Alcoholic. Druggie. Slut. The words were flung at him during their worst arguments, and he’d call her a slew of nasty things in reply. Then they’d avoid each other for a few days, maybe weeks, and Robert would sleep on the couch until they made up over tequila and fucked to make a marriage last.

At the end of the day, Robert Small loved Marilyn very, very much.

The problem had never laid with her. It laid with him. He had selfishly sought after his own happiness, blind to what was right in front of him. Sex, drugs, and alcohol made him happy. The highs felt amazing; distracted him from his piss poor bank account and the fights over sex, drugs, and alcohol. A self-fulfilling prophecy in an endless cycle. He just wanted to be happy. He wanted to live every day like Death was just around the corner. He wanted thrills, to feel adrenaline pumping, to be able to scream to the sky out of sheer  _ joy _ …

And now he’s here.

Now he’s here, hugging a toilet bowl with one arm as his other takes way too long to send a simple text.

[maryyyy lets go lets get our drink on]

He turns his head to vomit up a brief bit of spittle. He's smoked _w_ _ ay _ too much weed, and the entire room is spinning. He can smell his nosebleed. He rests his head on the rim of the bowl and drifts for a while, only coming out of his stupor when his phone buzzes in his hand.

[no can do, sailor. i’m out of the game for the next 9 months.]

He frowns at that, reading it over several times. Fighting down another gag, he uses two hands to text this time, lying down on the tiled linoleum floor. It’s cool against his cheek, and it feels much better than a dirty floor has any right to feel.

[waht??? where u goin??]

He rolls onto his back to stare up at the single light in the room, burning it into his retina. He wonders if it will make him go blind. He must drift again in the sparse minute it takes Mary to reply, because he startles at the buzz of his phone.

[I’m pregnant, idiot. what else would make me go sober for 9 months??]

Robert should say something nice like  _ congratulations! _ or something. But instead, he taps out something much shorter.

[ :( ]

Mary responds instantly to that.

[i haven’t even seen you in a month. you can’t miss me that bad. tell neil i say hi if you go.]

Has it really been a month…?

He doesn’t respond to her, poking around on his phone to check the text thread he has going with Val. She ignores his drunken texts, so the entire thread is still just him, his messages increasingly difficult to read. They were mostly apologies or rantings about her mother, so he’s quick to close out and tap the other threads. He tempts himself to text Lars, and before he can control his thumbs, he had typed out a message asking if he dealt heroin. The response is immediate.

[fuck no. that shit kills. you sure u ok man? u been buyin a lot]

[yeah im fine]

Lars texts him something back, but he closes it, tapping the final text thread he has. This one is with Joseph and it’s nearly the opposite of the thread with Val. All messages from Joseph, none of which he’s replied to.

[Hello neighbor! I dropped off some more soup for you today. I hope you’re eating well. ~Joseph]

[Brian's having a cookout for Labor Day today. I can come pick you up and we can get our grill on! ~Joseph]

[It’s been quite some time since I’ve seen you! Are you alright? I’ll be doing my own sermon this Sunday morning at eleven if you would like to come! Let me know and I can pick you up! ~Joseph]

[Hey Robert! I’m making some cupcakes for the church bake sale! Would you like to help out? I allow free taste testing! ~Joseph]

The most recent message was sent this evening, sometime between blunts. Robert doesn’t even remember the reply he typed.

[Hello Robert! I left some bake sale leftovers on your porch! I’ll be giving another sermon tomorrow, 11 as usual! It would be great if you could come! I think it’s a topic you need to think about right now. Sorry, that wasn’t supposed to sound ominous! Let me know and we can carpool! :) ~Joseph]

He feels like puking at his own reply.

[ill come if u wear a slutty nun outfit]

That was sent three hours ago. No response.

Sex, drugs, and alcohol make him happy. He has two of those things, but Val was right; there are absolutely  _ no _ hookers around here. He did research, honestly. There’s a sex shop in the seedy part of town, but no whores. Not even a strip club. The nearest thing is a topless bar off the freeway, almost an hour’s drive away. So fuck him if he’s a little thirsty. Cool Youth Minister Joseph can fuck right off with his perfect hair and perfect eyes and perfect muscles.

Besides, if he can’t get a whore, the next easiest thing is to poach a single dad from the congregation. Priests are always bottling up their sex drive. The religious get pretty wild.

[ok forget whtevr that was i sent earlier ill come to ur dumb speech]

Surprisingly, Joseph texts back within seconds.

[Excellent! I’ll pick you up at quarter til! ~Joseph]

[i kno its u stop signing ur name nerd]

[Haha, sorry! Old habit!]

[nerd]

Robert sleeps on the bathroom floor that night, with his phone set with an alarm to ring at ten thirty in the morning. Fifteen minutes is plenty of time to wash the vomit off of himself.

Fifteen minutes is not enough time.

First of all, he hit snooze, and he only has six minutes before Joseph is going to pick him up. He manages to brush his teeth and rinse his face, throwing on a plain black shirt that smells clean and a pair of jeans that aren’t ripped up when he hears his doorbell ring.

In all honesty, church is the last place that Robert belongs. He’ll probably burst into flame the second he sets foot on sacred ground. But he knows that he’s been alone too long, soaking in his own guilt and grief, and he needs to see someone. He needs to see someone, even if that means he has to go to church for the first time in his life. White People Church, even. They weren’t going to make him pray, were they? Sing hymns? Put money in a copper bowl?

As soon as he opens the door, he’s fumbling for the sunglasses on the table nearby, the early morning light aiming directly through his doorway. Fuck. He hears Joseph give a nervous sort of laugh as he finally gets the shades on over his eyes, and he can see properly.

Joseph is in a light blue polo and khakis. Does this guy own anything else? At least blue looks better on him than pink. Brings out his eyes.

_ Slow down there, brain _ . Robert doesn’t need another reason to be condemned to Hell, thanks.

“Pardon my French, but you look like shit.”

Robert grumbles, stepping onto the porch and shutting the door behind him. He doesn’t bother locking it. “Isn’t swearing on Sundays a sin?”

“Doing just about anything on Sunday is a sin,” he pans back, grinning before hopping down the steps to his awaiting minivan. Robert has just now noticed the HONK IF YOU LOVE JESUS bumper sticker. 

“So why even go to church?”

Joseph’s grin hides a bit of impatience. He must be in a hurry, though he still waits until Robert buckles up before driving. “Because someone needs to bring His word to the heathens.”

He sighs as if he’s been awake for centuries, sinking into the bucket seat. “Lemme guess; I’m the heathen.”

“You said it, not me.”

He scoffs. It almost sounds like a laugh. “And you don’t even know me yet.”

“I’d like to.”

Robert rolls his eyes before directing them out of the window. His hands clench on his lap. “No you wouldn’t.”

Joseph doesn’t argue. They’re at the church in less than five minutes, and Robert awkwardly stands by the car as Joseph rummages around to grab a laundered hanger from the dry cleaning that's been hanging in the back of the van. He gives him an eager smile. “Go on inside. I have to get ready for my sermon.”

“Can’t.”

Joseph pauses mid-stride, stepping back to give Robert a quizzical look.

Robert shrugs, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Might burst into flame.”

Joseph blinks for just a fraction of a second before he laughs. “I can guarantee you won’t. Now go get a seat before all the good ones are taken.”

Robert bites his tongue on a comment about there being  _ no _ good seats in church, but thinks better of it. Joseph is already half-jogging to get inside, and Robert spots the rest of the congregation milling in much calmer after him. They’re all in formal or semi-formal wear, and Robert feels even more out of place than he already does. That is, until there’s a hand on his shoulder.

“God strike this Devil down where he stands.”

He turns to see Mary there, dressed in what he assumes must be her Sunday Best. She’s in a nice, well ironed sweater, the collar hanging a bit like a cowl. Her trademark necklace is still on, peeking from beneath the maroon fabric. Her skirt is dark gray rather than the typical black, hugging her legs before flaring out subtly before the ankle. Where she’s wearing tennis shoes. Oh well. Almost perfect.

“What’re you doing here?” she asks in his lull, hooking her arm around his and beginning to drag him along to the quaint little church in this quaint little town. “Didn’t take you for a God-fearing type.”

He sighs, following her lead. He sneaks a glance to her stomach, but it’s too soon in her pregnancy to be showing anything. “Alcohol won’t do the trick, so I figured I’d try spontaneous combustion.”

She frowns, though she sees someone else to grin at. Robert stumbles after her as she sets upon another awkward church-goer.

“Dames!”

A man finely dressed in a shirt and pants fit for a renaissance fair turns around with wide eyes, black hair in a curtain to his shoulders. He immediately breaks into a warm smile, however, and Mary lets go of Robert’s arm to give “Dames” a big hug.

“It’s so good to see you, Mary! You’re feeling well, I presume?”

Ah, girl. Not a dude. Either that or a dude with a high voice. Whatever, Robert’s seen weirder. He just awkwardly stands to the side as they exchange pleasantries and Mary describes how terrible her morning sickness has been in much more detail than anyone gathered would care to hear. She also seems to forget where they are until a man in a bowtie awkwardly clears his throat.

“Ah, sh--hoooott… Hugo! Don’t scare me like that.” Mary slaps his arm, though it looks like it has real force behind it. The man doesn’t mind. Robert notices a boy sulking in his shadow, looking incredibly uncomfortable in a miniature suit that matches his father’s. Well, Robert gets that kid. He gives him a pitying smile, but the kid just looks at the ground.

“Hugo, love, we need to hurry.” Another man approaches, smiling warmly as he takes Hugo’s hand. The kid bristles and shifts awkwardly away. “Good morning, Mary. Damien. And…?” He looks at Robert quizzically, head canting.

Great, now everyone’s looking at him.

“Robert.”

“Robert! Good to meet you. I’m Richard, and this here is Hugo, my fiance.”

Hugo blushes somewhere under his mustache. The kid slips away without being noticed. Impressive.

Damien bows, fucking  _ bows _ , and Robert feels like he should curtsey. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Robert! My name is Damien Bloodmarch, I--”

Mary claps her hands together. “Alright, peanut gallery. Let’s make like Ernest and get in there before all the donuts are gone.”

No one said anything about donuts. Churches give out donuts? Robert’s stomach growls. When’s the last time he ate? What was the last  _ thing _ he ate? A jar of peanut butter, he thinks… Yeah, a donut would do him some good. Maybe church isn’t so bad.

Ah, but the group has paired off. Damien on Mary’s arm, Hugo and Richard holding hands. The inside of the church is host to an enormous depiction of Jesus at the entryway, and Robert spends a moment considering the physics involved with a full grown man’s body weight being held up by two nails, during which his little impromptu group disperses.

By the time he follows the crowd into the main area, the only donuts left on a folding card table are plain cake or coated in peanuts. Robert grabs a plain one and a styrofoam cup of coffee from a preheated kettle before he turns and finds a spot on a pew in the back next to an older couple that give him a suspicious side-eye. Whatever. Considering there’s an openly gay couple that comes here, he doubts wearing something so casual is going to put him on their shit list.

He spots the back of Mary’s head in the front pew with Damien. As much as he’d like her company, he’s not going to get that close to a stained glass rendition of White Jesus. God, there’s a lot of Jesus in here. Kind of uncomfortable with a rugged half-naked man’s dead eyes staring at you.

He’s licking crumbs off his fingers and debating grabbing a second donut when the congregation sits and silence settles. Joseph has been chatting with the front row, but now he takes his place at the altar, or whatever that podium is called, and Robert realizes what must have been in the dry cleaning bag.

He’s in pristinely white, smartly ironed priest’s robes. Kind of looks like a Jesus Toga. He wears a scarf of sorts over his shoulders (a stole? He’s not sure) of deep wine red. It’s a silly looking get-up, but Joseph pulls it off, of course. That doesn’t surprise him.

“Good morning, everyone!”

There’s an instant, monotonous reply from the crowd that reminds Robert of a cult. “Good morning!” He pretends to drink his empty cup of coffee when the old woman next to him frowns at his lack of response.

“As you all know, Father Harold is still on bed rest from his recent hip replacement. God’s will has given him this time to focus on himself and his faith, and I’m sure we’ll see him back here next week.” Joseph smiles politely, a few in the crowd murmur “amen”, and his hands come to rest on the podium. “And then, kids, I promise you’ll only hear my voice drone on during Sunday School.” That gets a few good-natured laughs. Robert spots the kid from earlier, who just sinks down further into the pew. Joseph’s eyes seem to single him out, though carry on addressing the congregation as a whole. “Father Harold is the one that picked today’s topic for a sermon, and I think it is one that is a long time coming on this day of communion.”

Mary and Damien suddenly both stand up, wielding copper pans. Oh, here it comes. Mary starts on one half of the room, and Damien at the other. They wait for Joseph’s cue, though the priest doesn’t look at them.

“Your donations have so happily gone to this church through the years. New pews, maintenance, a new coat of paint, and that lovely playset out back… But today, I would like to ask something different. Today, the donations you so graciously give will be given back to this community. There are many out there struggling, and is it not our duty to love thy neighbor and care for them?”

The pans begin to pass. Robert is hyperaware of the fact he doesn’t have his wallet, and he debates on going to the bathroom. But he doesn’t know where the bathroom  _ is _ , so he’s going to just be… stuck here, for a moment. The old woman next to him is rooting through her purse as Mary and Damien dutifully follow the pans and Joseph continues his sermon.

“So often, we save our charity for the holiday season. There is no reason to keep it confined to one or two months; we must always provide support, to give when we can. There are those within our own community that are in such dire help at all times of the year.” Robert swears those eyes land on him and stay there. “Even next door. The neighbors you don’t see often could be suffering, could be needing your help. Not everyone can reach out for help, you understand. It is up to us to seek them out and provide that help they need.” He finally looks away from Robert, and he feels like he can breathe again. “Our Lord taught us to love and accept, and to give our wealth to those less fortunate.”

Oh, that line was rich. Robert grins at it; Joseph has a fucking  _ yacht _ . Where’s his charity?

He flips open a large Bible on the podium and begins to read from it, voice booming and echoing through the church without the need or want for a microphone. The way he speaks is commanding, leaving the congregation to listen in rapt attention to every word that comes from his lips. His blue eyes flicker from the text to the crowd, though his words never falter. He must have practiced this. Or he just knows the Bible by heart. Either way, Robert finds himself listening to not the words, but the strength in the voice that recites them.

It’s honestly kind of sexy.

He’s pulled out of the odd hypnosis he’s fallen into when Mary pokes the passing dish into his elbow. She spares him a roll of her eyes before she resumes a professional stance, and the cold plate feels like fire in his hands.

There’s got to be at least two hundred dollars in this thing. Crumpled ones, pressed twenties, even a delicately folded fifty. It’s tempting to just pocket a handful of it, but the old woman to his side clears her throat when he hasn’t done anything with it.

He passes it to her wordlessly. She looks like she’s going to say something, but Joseph must have noticed the brief moment because his voice pitches a bit louder.

_ “There is only one Lawgiver and Judge, the one who is able to save and destroy. But you—who are you to judge your neighbor?” _

The old woman puts a wadded ten in the pot and passes it to her husband, eyes downcast. Robert bites back the urge to give her a shit-eating grin. Take  _ that _ , Evelyn.

The pots are collected after the final row has finished, Damien and Mary taking them up to place them on a small table behind Joseph and beneath the stained glass Jesus. They resume their seats as Joseph’s Bible storytime comes to a close, and he glances to the dishes before turning back with a wide, genuine smile.

“Thank you very much, and your neighbors thank you as well. Now, on this day of Communion, I daresay we should get to the good stuff.”

There’s a smattering of good-natured laughter, Joseph closing his Bible before he turns to the table. How he didn’t see it either, he doesn’t know, but there’s a bottle of dark wine and a round loaf of bread sitting there. He takes the bread in hand and another man in priestly robes stands from the front pew to take the wine. Joseph says some kind of prayer over both edibles, and the crowd murmurs an  _ amen _ .

Damn. If Robert would have known they had alcohol in church, he would have come sooner. Wine, bread,  _and_ donuts? Maybe it's not so bad.

Everyone stands at some silent cue, Robert leaving his cup on his seat as if scared someone will steal his spot from him. The other man is filling up plastic shot glasses with wine, Joseph stepping down the shallow steps to stand before the altar. Everyone converges to a single-file line, and some old lady on a piano starts plucking somber notes. It feels like a funeral or something. Robert’s skin itches.

Now would be the prime time to make a break for it… but there’s also a shot glass of wine up there with his name on it. And if he doesn’t go up there, Joseph will know he’s ditched. Besides, the old lady behind him has placed a hand on his arm and she’s talking to him oh shit he hasn’t been listening what is she saying--

“--my grandson has the same problem. Father Harold sponsors AA meetings here on Thursday nights. I know a hangover when I see one, darling.”

He shrugs off her hand, trying not to think about how cold and frail it is. He turns to her, face serious. “If you will excuse me, it is very difficult to maintain my focus when you speak to me. These flesh vessels are difficult to navigate.”

If God himself could’ve seen her face that instant, even He would have laughed.

She goes pale, well, paler than she already was, and takes a step back, bumping into her husband and nearly sending him off-balance from his cane. Her eyes drop and gnarled hands tangle together in prayer, clutching at a rosary on her neck.

Okay, he feels a little bad.

“Cool it, Granny. I’m kidding.”

She blinks up at him, face incredulous. Robert grins.

“Or am I?”

Someone clears their throat and Robert realizes it’s time to get the Holy Wine. Really, any wine is holy, so long as it has alcohol in it. The priest bows to him and says something about Blood of the Father, but honestly, Robert’s too busy knocking back the shot like a seasoned pro. He hears Mary stifle a laugh. The woman behind him lets out a little  _ tut _ as she sips at her own.

But he can tell from the shitty taste that it’s non-alcoholic. Damn it.

He steps over to Joseph, who offers him a loaf of bread that has been nearly decimated by the line he’s been following. He says a recited prayer about the Body of Christ before he seems to notice it’s Robert that he’s reciting it to. His smile turns from practiced to more genuine, and he bows his head as Robert tears off a healthy piece of bread. Probably more than he’s supposed to take.

“Thank you for coming. I promise it’s almost over.”

Robert raises the bread in a mock toast before he eats it, speaking with his mouth full. “Invest in some real wine and I’ll come more often.”

“Every Sunday isn’t Communion, Robert.”

“It should be.”

He earns a quiet chuckle that rumbles out of Joseph’s chest before he gets the hint and moves back to his seat. Evelyn has some sort of hushed conversation with him; Robert isn’t sure if that’s her name, but she sure looks like an Evelyn.

He returns to his seat and as the sermon really starts to kick off after a hymn he doesn’t bother to stand for, he starts picking apart his cup for something to do as he listens to Joseph’s booming voice. It’s something about faith, love, and friendship, but if he’s being honest, Robert doesn’t care. His hungover, sleepy brain is too busy thinking about that voice and how commanding it sounds. How commanding it would sound telling him shit like--

“--and so we are to get on our knees before Him and take what He has given us.”

He nearly chokes on air. Evelyn gives him a look before passing him a wad of tissues, mistaking his silent struggle to contain his laughing or coughing (he’s not sure which it is) as being moved so incredibly deeply by this sermon.

_ Get on your knees and suck His dick, Robert. _

Yeah, that would sound nice in this kind of voice.

He can’t keep up his calm demeanor much longer, so he takes the tissues and utters a choked “thanks” before he makes his escape. Thank God there’s signs for the bathroom. No pun intended.

The bathrooms seem to be just as old as the church, with walls papered in some cheesy blue floral pattern. Framed calligraphy of Bible verses hang on the wall in contrast, and there’s only one urinal and one stall. But Robert pauses the second he catches himself in a framed mirror.

He looks like the literal personification of hell. Or at least, what he assumes hell would be.

The shadows under his bloodshot eyes are enormous, his face paled and gaunt. His cheeks are narrow and hollow, his clothes hanging off of him in a way that they didn’t used to. He’s clearly lost weight, and in the mop of his greasy, dirty hair, he’s seeing the start of a few gray hairs. The way he holds himself is hunched, as if his body is trying to subconsciously hold itself together. It doesn't seem to be doing a very good job.

It reminds him of when he had dragged himself home at four in the morning after nearly dying from a shot of heroin. Ragged, steps from death...

That’s one way to get himself soft again.

But Joseph hadn’t been lying. He hears the final words of the sermon and a chorus of “amen” before brief applause and the sound of people moving around. He doubts he’ll be alone much longer, so he splashes water on his face to try to make himself look better (it doesn’t work) before he steps outside and looks around for Mary.

He sees her, but she’s trapped in a group of Church Women and forcing polite laughs as they talk Girl Stuff and Jesus Stuff. Not where he wants to be. So he looks for maybe Damien or Hugo, maybe that sulking kid…

But Joseph finds him first.

“Thank you for coming, Robert. I appreciate it.” His smile is warm and honest, hands clasped before him. He's still in his priest robes, but he looks refreshed, almost. As if standing before the congregation for almost two hours was the equivalent of a nap.

Robert shrugs, tucking his hands into his jean pockets. “You proud I didn't burst into flame?”

He gives a low chuckle. “Relieved, perhaps. Could I make a regular church goer out of you?”

“Don't push your luck.”

He grins and opens his mouth to speak, but the other priest or assistant or whatever the hell (heaven?) he is interrupts. He hands Joseph an envelope and they share a few hushed words. Robert awkwardly looks away, feeling like he's intruding on some sort of holy drug deal. He catches sight of that sulking kid almost literally dragging Hugo out, other father laughing at the effort. Mary is still being swarmed by church women, and Damien is nowhere to be seen.

“Robert?”

He turns back as the other man walks off to see Joseph offering him a thick envelope. 

“On behalf of the church, I'd like you to have this.”

Confused, he reaches for it, though the instant he feels the contents give beneath his fingers, he lets go as if he's been burned. He steps back, voice raising louder than it should in a church. “Fuck no!”

The church falls quiet. Joseph's eyes go wide, and he looks almost… disappointed? He frowns, chasing after Robert with a step of his own. He keeps his voice low, aware that now they're being watched. “Please, Robert. I know you haven't been eating properly, and your finances must be struggling with funeral costs and such…”

The envelope is offered again, but Robert refuses. “I don't take handouts. I don't need your fucking sympathy.”

“But--”

“I won't take it.” And when Joseph tries to give it again, to forcefully place it in those hands, Robert storms out of the church, all eyes on the little scene he just made.

The cul-de-sac isn’t far from the church at all, and Robert eventually finds his way home beneath the warm September sun. Joseph doesn’t call him or text him, and Mary doesn’t either for that matter, but he doesn’t really care. He just goes home and flops onto his bed, wasting away the rest of the day.

Sometime Monday night, he emerges into the dark, having arranged a meeting with Lars. He pauses, however, when he notices what’s on his porch. 

Four paper grocery bags, one of which has a note taped to it. Each bag is full of canned food, cereal, chips, and other dry goods. Scowling, he tears off the note to read it.

_ Since you wouldn’t take the money, I used it to buy you some groceries. Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do. ~Joseph _

“Son of a fucking  _ bitch _ .”

He knows that he’s not doing well. He knows that drowning himself in whiskey and burning his nose with cocaine isn’t doing him any favors. But it feels better than letting the guilt and grief eat him up sober. Every time he goes to bed, he’s hyperaware of how empty it is. Every time he looks at the kitchen counter, he thinks about that carrot cake he never finished. Every fucking time he looks in the mirror, he wonders if he’s the one that died. He sure looks it.

But that doesn’t mean he needs this kind of pity. He has money to go grocery shopping. He still has all that soup Joseph had given him. He doesn’t need this. He doesn’t  _ want _ this.

He picks up a bag and starts carrying it across the yard to Joseph’s house.

He drops them on the porch, noting that all of the lights are shut off. Probably sleeping. But that’s fine; he doesn’t want the confrontation anyway. He’s halfway across the yard with the fourth bag and grumbling under his breath when the paper bottom suddenly gives, dropping cans of soup, vegetables, and fruit pouring into Joseph’s well-trimmed yard. He watches numbly, clutching the remnants of the bag, as a few cans roll down the small hill towards the road.

Whatever.

He drops the torn bag and heads to his truck to meet up with Lars to forget again.

Lars is at the Sound Garden again tonight, and all Robert can remember is some kids playing shitty grunge music and slipping into the bathroom to do a line and take a tab of ecstacy from a drunk kid before it all goes black and fuzzy around the edges. 

He’s on the dance floor at some point, throwing shoulders and elbows in the pit. Someone knocks him over and his cup of vodka and sprite splashes on the floor and then he’s throwing punches for real. Someone drags him out and he’s in a back alley, he stumbles to a liquor shop, he drains a bottle of wine on the curb while throwing stones at a stop sign with increasingly horrible aim. He’s home, almost tripping up the stairs, when he remembers that the bartender at the Sound Garden had taken his keys. He’s locked out, so he just sits on his porch, legs too weak and head too dizzy to walk. So he sits, fumbling with a lighter on an overstuffed blunt. The sun rises as he digs out the baggy with the rest of his cocaine in it.

“Robert?”

He’s… on the grass? Fuck, the sun’s bright, too… He closes his eyes against it again.

“Damien, did you call an ambulance?”

“Yes. They should be on their way shortly. He looks like he’s coming to.”

His eyes flutter again and he thinks he sees Joseph. His lids close too quick again to register much. He coughs violently and he feels strong arms turning him onto his side as he vomits into the grass.

“Good, get it out… Can you hear us, Robert? It’s me, Joseph. Damien is here too.”

Distantly, he hears sirens beyond the hammering of the blood in his ears. His heart is going so fast, he wonders if he’s having a heart attack.

“Joseph, his nose is bleeding…”

“God… He feels like he's running a fever, too." The hand on his forehead is cold. "Robert, open your eyes.”

Bile rises and he throws up again, weakly. He coughs and tastes blood. His arms and legs twitch and shake, and his whole body seizes with a tremor as he gasps for air. Where is he? What’s going on? Why can’t he breathe? Why is his heartbeat so weird?

“Robert!”

The next time he opens his eyes, it’s dim and he can hear a steady, high pitched beeping. He feels heavy, and when he rolls his head to the side, he sees Valerie curled up on a cheap armchair, half asleep as her fingers poke tiredly at her phone. Her head bobs as she nearly falls asleep again, but she doesn’t seem to notice that Robert is awake.

There’s a few machines next to the bed he’s on, and he spots a door near where Valerie is sitting. He watches someone walk past in scrubs, and when he wiggles his fingers, he feels a heart monitor on one of them and an IV in the back of his hand.

He’s in the hospital.

Why is he in the hospital?

He tries to sit up, but his chest aches, as if an elephant has been sitting on him. Even his neck and jaw hurt, so he gives up and flops back down against the sterile sheets. Jesus, they even put him in one of those assless gowns under these starchy sheets.

Valerie startles to wake up fully, nearly dropping her phone. She fumbles it before clutching it with manicured nails, dark eyes wide in the dimly lit room. The only light seems to come from a muted tv and the hall lights. She blinks, then her face moves from sleepy confusion to muted anger.

“Morning. It’s like three in the morning.” She double-checks the time on her phone before tucking it into her purse. “You’re alive.”

He frowns, looking up at the ceiling. Why does she sound so disappointed? “Ain’t gonna die that easy.”

She snorts a laugh. “Uh huh. Do you even know what happened? Where you are? What day it is?”

His silence is enough of an answer for her.

“You overdosed. Apparently they found cocaine, marijuana, ecstasy, and a shitload of alcohol in your system. Honestly, it’s a miracle you lived long enough to have a heart attack in an ambulance after having a seizure on your front yard.”

He turns to look at her again, eyes wide.

She stands, slinging her purse over her shoulder. “Now that you’re alive, I’m leaving.”

He frowns, trying to sit up again. “Wait, wait, what? Val--”

“Mom’s dead, dad. I don’t need to lose you too.”

He freezes. She’s… crying?

“So this is goodbye. I don’t care anymore, alright? I used to think a distant father was better than not having one at all, and I was wrong. I can’t go through this again. I can’t watch you kill yourself on drugs. You’ve been out of it for three days. The doctors said you might not make it. You’re malnourished, drunk, high… I’m not doing it. As far as I’m concerned, you’re dead. Take me off your phone as an emergency contact. I’m done. I know you’re not even going to go to therapy, are you?”

His silence answers for him once more.

"So there was no point in me coming here, was there? You're not gonna try to get better. You're just gonna do this again."

He opens his mouth, but hesitates. “...Val, please--”

“If you don’t care about your life, why should I care about it? I thought maybe you'd straightened out after the move. Guess I was wrong. Go ahead and rot, if that's what you want. I won't stop you.”

The slam of the door is like a bullet tearing through his chest.


	3. 9th and Hennepin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get Spooky this time, kids.
> 
> Comments would be nice. Some kind of validation that this isn't as shitty as I think it is. You can even follow me on [tumblr](https://degraded-psychotic.tumblr.com).
> 
> [The song for this chapter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MpEmalTWPWA)

When Robert is released from the hospital another three days later, after he’s had hospital food in his stomach and proves he’s in a right mind to leave, he finds his keys hanging from a lanyard on the doorknob. The lanyard is a happy neon blue with the white words JESUS LOVES ME on it separated by little crosses and hearts. Well, at least now he knows who got his keys for him.

“Are you alright, Robert?”

He glances back to Damien, who’s hesitating in his car. He had been the one to drive him home, and Robert’s ears are still ringing from all the useless Victorian facts he had to listen to on the drive. Why can't he listen to NPR like normal guys in waistcoats?

“Yeah, fine. Thanks.”

“Of course! Do not ever hesitate to contact me.”

He waves him away before picking up his keys, plugging it into the lock to open the door. Must be a safe community if a guy’s house key can be hanging right on the damn knob and no one bothers to break in. A bit of a difference from Brooklyn.  The real surprise is when he steps inside.

It’s  _ clean _ . 

This house hasn’t been clean since before he and Marilyn dragged the boxes in. The clothes that littered the floor are gone, the empty bottles, baggies, empty cigarette packs are also lacking, and it smells like Febreeze in here. It’s like a gang of maids broke in. Hell, when he gets to the kitchen and opens the fridge for a drink, the thing is full of tupperware. Each container has a premade meal in it, and he finds that his beer is gone.

He has half a mind to call Joseph just to bitch him out, but it’s Sunday. He’s probably at church or whatever… But he still sends him a text, trying not to let the fact that he has 0 messages from the past week bother him. Not that he expected anyone to care about his wellbeing. He would have ignored them anyway.

_ Coming into my house uninvited is still breaking and entering. I could sue you and all your 7 dwarves for cleaning in here. _

He pockets his phone as he goes upstairs, finding his clothes neatly folded on top of his dresser. He scoffs at it and his pristinely made bed, shucking his week-old clothes and collapsing on top of the mattress to pass out for some well-needed sleep in his own bed.

He wakes up sometime around four in the afternoon, and he makes the mistake of rolling over to look out the glass panes of the balcony doors. The chairs are still arranged on either side of the table, a half-burned citronella candle sitting on top. The memories are so livid now when he’s sober that he swears if he rolls over, he’ll see her lying beside him in her usual spot. He can hear her snore, her laugh, the way she sang to herself while getting ready in the morning shower to help wake herself up. But he knows she’s gone. She’s gone, and now he’s lost Valerie too. His hands are as empty as this damn house.

It hurts. God, does it hurt.

The drink and the drugs help dull the pain, but it just returns in tenfold when he sobers up again. But if he doesn’t sober up, then he doesn’t feel it, and if it ends up killing him… fine. He doesn’t have anything or anyone to live for anyway.

He’s had two close brushes with death since Marilyn’s death. Third time’s the charm, and all that. Drowning? Nope. Overdose? Almost. Maybe next time he should try inside of his own house so the neighborhood watch doesn’t find him and call an ambulance. 

Ah, but that means he has to go to the liquor store. Text Lars. See if Joseph cleaned out his stash, too… And really, he doesn’t feel like doing anything.

So he gets up to close the curtains with more force than necessary before he flops back onto bed. He glances down to the floor to see his phone flashing, and he picks it up to look at what the notification is. Maybe it’s Lars, or… A part of him honestly hopes it’s Val. But he gets neither.

It’s a text from Joseph.

_ I’m so glad you’re home! Please let me know if there’s anything I can do for you! I’m not sure if you’re aware, but our church has AA meetings on Thursdays at 6. If that isn’t your speed, I’m always here if you need to talk! You know where to find me. _

He drops it back on the floor and rolls under the blankets to sleep. When his phone buzzes again, he ignores it.

Robert hasn’t been able to keep track of time lately. Even now, when he’s on his stomach and reaching for a warm 24 pack of beer he’s got stuffed under his bed, he’s not entirely what time it is. Beer isn’t his preferred drink right now, but it seems to be the only thing Joseph has missed. He’ll have to make a whiskey run at some point. He glances at his phone, but all that's there for him is the phone number for the church office that Joseph works in. Whatever.

The only drugs he still has is marijuana. He rations it out when his shakes get too bad, puffing on a blunt with a shot of whiskey as he lies naked in his own bed. He just keeps thinking about what Valerie said, what he’s done, what Marilyn would think. Should he move back to Brooklyn? Sell this house again? Maple Bay isn’t doing him any good. Then again, Brooklyn would be worse. He’s lived his entire life there. There’s too many memories. Too many dealers, whores, bad choices… And he tells himself that beer and pot isn’t as bad as the shit he’d been doing, but some night around almost two in the morning, he’s pulling on clothes and grabbing his keys. He had pulled off the stupid lanyard out of spite, and it’s now cheerily draped over the back of his couch.

The drive to the liquor store is a quick one, and the cashier jokes about having not seen him in a while. He just gives a shrug at it, loading a paper bag of whiskey, wine, and another 24 pack into the back of his truck. It’s still the middle of the night and a full moon is shining, September chill creeping into his bones, and it’s on a whim that he makes a turn down a road to follow a sign for Maple Bay Recreational Area.

It’s a long road up there, and when he gets to the entrance, there’s a gate closed across the road with a sign declaring that the park is only open from dawn til dusk. A bummer, but a padlocked fence has never been something to stop Robert Small. In fact, it’s what motivates him further.

He pulls his truck over to the curb to park it, rummaging around in his glove box. He hasn’t cleaned it out since he and Marilyn had gone on a midnight cryptid hunting excursion in Saratoga Springs a couple years ago. There’s a flashlight he grabs and all kinds of recording equipment, but he just opts for the old polaroid that somehow still works. He makes sure there’s enough cartridges to last him, and while he’s not anticipating anything out of the ordinary, some shots of the full moon tonight would be nice.

He double-checks that he has his knife in the pocket of his leather jacket and some band-aids in case he cuts himself on the fence before he gets out of the truck. He debates grabbing a drink to take with him, but he’s got enough to carry as it is.

Slinging the camera’s strap around his neck and the flashlight around his wrist, he easily scales the low fence and lands on a dirt two-track. There’s a little ranger station right at the entrance, but it’s empty, and the beam of his flashlight sweeps over a painting of Smokey the Bear and a list of camping prices. He grabs a flyer with the pricing on it to stuff in his pocket before he starts walking. Hey, it has a map on it, and maybe one day he’ll invest in a tent. Fight a bear someday.

The road forks with one road continuing through the trees to what must be the camping area while the other sets up a steady incline. He opts to go that way, flashlight beam steady in front of him as he hikes. Honestly, he hasn’t hiked like this since that trip to Saratoga, and instead of the onslaught of memories he’s expecting, he feels… at peace. He hears crickets, frogs, the hoots of owls. It’s noisy, but not in the same way Brooklyn was, and it brings a calm feeling over him like a blanket. He doesn’t feel this kind of zen when he’s high, when he’s drunk, and he wonders if he should take up night hiking as a serious hobby. It gets him some fresh air and out of the house, at least. Besides, the most dangerous thing out here is probably a coyote. He has a feeling he’d have heard about it by now if Maple Bay was host to wolves or bears. Shame.

The wooded trail opens up to a clearing after twenty minutes of uphill hiking, and Robert remembers just how very out of shape he is. He turns off his flashlight when he notices there’s a streetlight up here, and stepping closer to it reveals that his aching knees and wheezing breath is worth it.

There’s nothing up here other than a guard rail and the light, the road curving to a circle to grant U-turns. But beyond the rail is the entirety of Maple Bay laid out in miniature. He can see the lights of the town from here, the occasional car leaving to merge onto the interstate. The bay itself is dark, save for a few security floodlights on the piers, and he wonders which of those boats is Joseph’s yacht. He spots the cul-de-sac after a bit of searching, and while he can’t distinguish the houses from each other, he pulls out the polaroid to snap a picture anyway. It’d make a nice postcard for Valerie.

And there it is. The thoughts.

He’s lost Marilyn, and now Valerie too. He has nothing else to lose. Honestly, he can just throw himself off this cliff-

No. No, he hasn’t lost her yet. He can get better. Try for her. How many times had Marilyn threatened to divorce him, but they fought through it? He had never wanted to lose her, but now he has. He can’t let Valerie leave him, too.

He snaps a few more shots of the nighttime bay and tucks them in his pocket, enjoying the view for what it is. It puts things in perspective, this high up. Makes everything seem… smaller. Less threatening. He reaches to turn his flashlight back on and hike back when he comes to a single, chilling realization.

The noises have stopped. No bugs, no owls, no…  _ nothing _ . Just the wind in the trees. And crashing footsteps.

He spins to show the beam of his light on the edge of the woods, frozen to the spot as something human-sized begins to lumber through the brush. His light reflects off of a pair of eyes and a face as white as bone, and everything is screaming for him to  _ run _ . But he’s rooted to the spot in a confusing tangle of wonder and fear, and he feels like he’s going to have another heart attack when a black hand raises to block his light from the creature’s face.

“Excuse me, could you lower your light?”

He does in an instant, fear rushing out of him in a wave of breath. “Jesus Christ, Joseph!”

“Robert?”

The man steps out from the woods, his own flashlight shining on the ground. He’s in a fleece jacket with the dark hood up, gloves on his hands and hiking boots with his khakis tucked into them. He smiles, brushing off some loose leaves from his shoulders.

“I was afraid you were one of the park rangers come to kick me out. What brings you out here?”

Robert leans back against the fence, still trying to get over the surprise. “Just exploring. The fuck you doing in the woods?”

He chuckles, looking almost a little sheepish as he opts to stand next to Robert, setting his flashlight on the fence to give them some light. “You’d laugh at me.”

“Try me, Joe.”

He sighs, and his demeanor changes abruptly. He seems so  _ tired _ , eyes darting back to the woods as if on the lookout for something. The nightly noises have returned, though he doesn’t seem to take peace in that fact. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

Robert arches a brow. “I have a ghost hunting kit in my truck, what d’you think?”

Joseph doesn’t laugh or relax at all. He just keeps talking. “There’s something here in Maple Bay. I don’t know what it is; as a man of God, I’m not supposed to buy into ghosts. Maybe it’s a demon or something, but… I don’t know. I hope not. There’s something not quite right about these woods. About this town. I’m… trying to figure out what it is. Trying to exorcise it on my own.” He takes a breath, reaching into his pocket before offering a small digital recorder to Robert. He recognizes it for what it is. What it’s use is. “I’ve been trying to communicate with it and I’ve gotten nothing… until tonight. Listen to it, please, and tell me what you hear.”

He shows Robert what point to fast-forward to, and Robert holds it up to his ear to listen. The quality isn’t the best; it’s a cheap recorder. But he can make it out, at least.

_ “Please, tell me who you are. Tell me what you’re doing here. Why you’re here. Tell me.” _

There’s a pause in which the static on the recorder abruptly stops, and then there’s a grumbling noise before Joseph gestures that _that’s it_. Frowning, Robert rewinds and plays it again, paying closer attention.

_ “Your god is fucked.” _

Robert goes cold, looking at Joseph with wide eyes.

“What did you hear it say?”

Robert repeats what he heard, and Joseph goes a bit pale. He takes the recorder back and tucks it into his pocket. He’s never seen Joseph unnerved, and it’s shattering the perfect visage he had of him before. He’s scared. So is Robert.

Joseph laughs, though it’s an awkward and forced thing. “I feel like a child, but could you walk me back? I don’t want to be alone in these woods.”

“Yeah, sure. Where’d you park?”

Joseph grabs his flashlight, shrugging sheepishly. “I actually walked all the way here. I was just taking a nighttime walk to get out for a moment and found myself coming here.”

Robert doesn’t say anything as they start to walk, running that recorded voice over in his head. It’s obviously a demon, speaking like that, but considering Joseph is a God-fearing man, he probably shouldn’t say that. Joseph is already rattled, and Robert giving his two cents on the matter won’t help. The guy needs to relax. So he stays quiet, letting Joseph collect himself. The walk down the path is quicker than up it, and soon they’re both hopping the low fence and getting into Robert’s truck.

He starts the engine, but not before he's gone to grab a bag from the bed to place on Joseph's lap. “Help yourself. You look like you need a drink.”

Joseph chuckles lowly, another tense sound, though he reaches for the wine without hesitation. He manages to wrestle it open as Robert turns back to the road, heading back to the cul-de-sac.

“You like Tom Waits?”

Joseph blinks, having been taking small sips from the bottle between potholes. “I can’t say I particularly li--”

Robert turns up the music beyond its muted volume and the deep, gruff voice fills the cab. He grins over at Joseph, who gives a good-natured laugh. A real one, that time.

He pulls into his own driveway and cuts the engine, though neither of them move to get out right away. Joseph is still taking little sips from the bottle, but when he notices Robert staring, he offers him the bottle instead.

Robert takes it, gesturing to the rest of it in the back. “You wanna come in for a drink?”

“I’d love that.”

Joseph helps him carry in the drinks, joining Robert in the kitchen as he fishes out the only actual glasses he has. No wine glasses; just regular cups. Joseph doesn’t say anything, and if he did, Robert would probably punch him.

He takes off his coat to drape it over one of the kitchen chairs, stepping to rummage through Robert’s cupboards to find some chips. Robert says nothing as he pours them each a glass of wine that’s easily equivalent to two or three regular glasses of wine, slipping out to take it to the couch and flip on Haunted Ghost Adventure Stories.

“No offense,” Joseph begins, sinking into the cushions beside Robert with his glass and a bowl of chips, “but I don’t really want to watch paranormal shows right now.”

“Fair point.” he reaches for the remote, switching it to some new show on the Food Network called Meat Hell. Looks interesting. Screaming is always entertaining.

A tense sort of silence falls over them as the head chef screams mostly bleeped-out words at his team as they nearly burn the place down but still somehow manage to have undercooked food. Robert has never been a fan of small talk, but he wants to talk right now. He wants to ask how long Joseph has been hunting this  _ thing _ in the woods. How long it’s been around and if it’s tied to the town somehow. How often does he go into the woods? Why did he hike all the way there last night instead of driving? Why is he chugging his wine right now?

“Whoa there, Joe.” He doesn’t tell him to stop, because honestly that seems a little hypocritical considering his record, but he does give him a  _ look _ . “That thing freaked you out that bad?”

Joseph sighs as if the world has landed on his chest, looking at his empty glass. “I’m scared, Robert,” he says after a moment, voice small and so much different from the confidence he has in church. “As youth minister, I’m also a counselor for them. Father Harold is older… They can’t relate to him. He’s a bit set in his ways. So I… I listen to them.” His fingers play with the edges of his glass, the little bumps of design along the sides. His eyes are unfocused, and he’s sure that if Joseph stops holding the glass, his hands would be shaking. “A few kids talked to me about nightmares. Always the same nightmare; they would be out in the woods, and something would be following them. They’d hear this noise and then they would wake up, sometimes screaming. Multiple people had this dream. Then their parents and friends came to me with similar stories… One family even told me that they had been camping in those woods over Labor Day and something attacked their tent. They had been out for a hike, and when they came back, it had been gutted… But whatever did it had unzipped it instead of ripping it open.” He gives a forced laugh, glancing over at Robert, who is in rapt attention. “That could have been teenagers. It was the nightmares and the stories of seeing  _ something _ in those woods that made me curious. It’s only been a month since I started and that voice I recorded… That’s the first voice I’ve gotten. Before then, I would only hear growls. Hisses.” He leans back so he can dig in his pockets, offering the recorder to Robert’s scarred hands. “What this thing is, it’s beyond me. I’m a man of God, but I can’t take on a ghost or… whatever this is. I know I said I was going to exorcise it myself, but I honestly don't know if I can.”

Robert sets his wine down on the coffee table to take the recorder, going back to the time of the voice. He lets it play in the lull of a commercial on TV and Joseph goes paler.

_ “Your god is fucked.” _

“That’s not a ghost. That’s a fucking demon, Joseph.”

The word seems to physically pain him as his hands clutch at his cup and his head bows, forehead nearly touching his knees. He’s trembling, and Robert hears him whisper a prayer under his breath. So, he does what any good neighbor would do and fetches the rest of the wine.

They don’t talk about it anymore, and with every sip of wine, Joseph seems to relax. The Meat Hell marathon gives way to Food Maniacs, and two episodes into that, Robert glances over to see that Joseph has fallen asleep, head lulled back against the cushions. But a particularly loud commercial causes him to stir, turning to tuck himself against Robert’s side as his head rests on his shoulder. His weight is warm and the breath that tickles at Robert’s unshaven jaw is even moreso. In all reality, he should push him off and tell him to go home, but he finds himself draping an arm over those shoulders to ease him closer instead. He swears he sees the sun peeking through the curtains when he falls asleep too.

The sound of something crashing in the kitchen wakes him up, and he spends a moment thrashing against a blanket he had been tucked into before he stumbles blearily into the kitchen.

Joseph stands there, apparently having lost a battle against Robert's coffee maker. He managed to get the pot out, and he steps over to the sink to rinse out the stains when he sees Robert in the doorway.

“Ah, sorry. Did I wake you?”

Robert shoots him a  _ no shit  _ look as he steps over to take the pot from Joseph once it's been rinsed. Their fingers brush for a moment and Robert pauses at it. It wasn't accidental. Joseph takes a step closer, their feet nearly touching.

“I wanted to thank you for last night… hangover or not.” He smiles, warm and kind. And subtly… something else. His eyes dart down to Robert's lips and he feels them part under the attention. They linger there before darting back up, locking eye contact between them. 

But the moment is over quickly, Joseph snatching the pot back from Robert's lax fingers to slide it back into place. He hits a few buttons and the old machine gurgles to life, the scent of good old off-brand Maxwell House filling the kitchen.

“Are you feeling alright? We went through an entire bottle of wine last night.”

He has to shake himself out of whatever trance those soft hands and deep blues put him in, scoffing around a grin as he sits in his cupboard for some Cheerios and an excuse to stall. “I'm a seasoned veteran, Joseph. I'm offended you even asked.”

There's the briefest of an awkward pause after his words, Joseph giving him a strained sort of smile. Right, this guy had called an ambulance when he had been having a drug and alcohol fueled seizure that resulted heart attack in his front lawn. Whoops.

“The invitation to an AA meeting still--”

Robert cuts him off with the glare that's caused his smile to fall. He's holding the cereal box a little too tightly. “If you wanna talk about that shit right now, you can leave.”

Joseph goes quiet, but doesn’t look happy about it. Robert ignores the little pout, fetching two bowls and pouring them each a liberal amount of cereal. A choice he should have thought about first, because when he opens the fridge to grab the milk, the consistency is a bit… chunky. Oh boy. It’s been sour for about three weeks according to the date. He puts it back, making a mental note to throw it away like he has for the past three weeks, shutting the door before Joseph can see what he’s doing.

“You like your Cheerios dry?”

Joseph gives an awkward sort of smile, proving that Robert wasn’t as sneaky as he thought, stepping to crowd next to him at the fridge. “Do you have eggs?”

“Uh…” He digs through the tupperware foods that are left, feeling Joseph’s body heat with how close he is. He finds a carton of eggs and offers them to him, closing the door quickly again. “How can you tell if eggs are still good?”

“If they sink in water,” he says simply, taking the carton and opening it to peer in at the three eggs leftover. He fills one of Robert’s coffee mugs with water, plopping one egg in at a time. Oh, this is embarrassing.

“They all float down here.”

Joseph blinks at him before it clicks and he lets out a snort of a laugh, dumping out the water and placing the bad eggs back into the carton to throw away. “I think I would be more comfortable if I was tracking Pennywise through the woods.”

Robert leans against the counter, arching a brow. “Seriously? Clowns don’t freak you out?”

Joseph shrugs, leaning on the counter beside Robert so their shoulders and arms just barely touch. “A clown is something tangible. A ghost… not so much.”

“Demon,” Robert corrects. 

Joseph expels a sigh in the form of an almost  _ whine.  _ “I would like to not think about that.”

“It has to be. What kind of dead person says  _ your god is fucked _ ?”

“A very passionate atheist.”

“Would they really still be an atheist after dying and becoming a spirit?”

“You got me there, Robert.”

He shoots him finger guns just as the coffee pot gives its final gurgle and sputter to announce that it's finished. Joseph pours them each a cup, though when he makes to hand it off to Robert, the man’s hand is too busy popping Cheerios into his mouth. He lets it sit on the counter, blowing on his own before sipping it carefully. The silence is heavy, the crunch of Cheerios and Joseph's sipping the only sounds. It feels... weird. 

“Don’t you have a balcony?” The way Joseph prompts it isn’t a question. He knows Robert has a balcony and he wants to sit out on it. The sun has far from risen; according to the microwave, it’s just past eleven. Just to sit in the fresh air, then?

“No.” 

It’s short and cold, startling Joseph to blink at him for a moment before he recovers. He’s clearly confused, but won’t show it. He just goes silent.

Marilyn’s urn is up there. Sat on the table with an old empty glass. It feels wrong to take someone else up there. Hell, it feels wrong for  _ him _ to go out there. It’s still so fresh, those mornings they’d sit up there before she left for work and he off to bed. The discussions about getting dogs, maybe starting a garden, drilling a hole in their fence to peek out and spy Mrs. Kravitz style. Their predictions on how they would age, if they would lose their minds or their bodies first. Grandchildless, they assumed regardless.

“You should probably go home.”

Joseph is almost done with his coffee when Robert says it. He’s been standing there looking at a handful of Cheerios and looking so fragile that Joseph hadn’t even wanted to say anything. But he knows a dismissal when he hears one, so he downs his coffee and offers Robert a smile. “You’re right. Thank you again for last night.”

It's a little awkward as Joseph sees himself out, but Robert honestly doesn't give a fuck. He makes his coffee Irish and settles in to numb his brain with TV. He spends his day downstairs on the couch, occasionally dozing on the couch in the blanket Joseph had pulled from the floor. He doesn’t go upstairs because he doesn’t want to see the closed curtains that are hiding all of his failures.

Then again, wouldn’t it be sort of… therapeutic?

Robert struggles with the very idea of laying eyes on that smooth silver urn for way too long, finally making the decision by the time the sun has gone down and the clock is nearing ten. The stairs leading up there are usual to him. Normal. He probably uses them three or four times a day. But now it feels like the longest staircase he’s ever had to climb, and he has to stop halfway up to turn back.

Whiskey. He needs a glass of whiskey.

He takes a shot for courage, pouring the next one with some cubes of ice to keep himself from downing it. His hand shakes as he makes his way up the stairs again. He feels out of breath when he reaches the top, and when he finds himself standing before the curtain, he almost turns to drop himself into bed instead.

He tears the curtain open and unlatches the door, sloshing a bit of whiskey to the floor as he throws the door wide. It’s such a stupid little thing to make such a big deal out of, he tries to reason, but as his bare feet touch the cool concrete of the balcony, he feels ready to collapse. The night air is cool and crisp, a sure sign that autumn is well on its way, and he can hear the telltale signs of the suburbs. The occasional car, though mostly crickets. Frogs. Soon winter will be here and he won’t hear a damn thing. A blessed sound that he has never had the pleasure to hear. A silence that Marilyn will never experience.

He feels like she’s watching him now as he steps past her urn. It’s easier if he doesn’t look, he tells himself, as he leans against the half wall of the balcony with both hands clutching his glass as if it’s the only thing he has right now. And damn it, it just might be. 

He stands in silence for a long time, letting the memory of sitting on this balcony with his wife wash over him. The happiest times they’ve ever had, now that he thinks about it. Except maybe the early times. The times before Valerie, before wedlock, before moving in together. When they were young and wild and free, and he’d pick her up in his truck and they’d smoke in the bed and spray over some punk’s graffiti in the alley. When he’d show her how to knife fight and then decide not to fight her anymore because she was too good, and he’s still got a thick scar on the underside of his right ring finger where her pocket knife gouged him hard enough that he probably should have gone to the emergency room if it weren’t for his pride. No, sitting out here and enjoying smog-free air had brought a peace upon both of them that they hadn’t known they needed. It was the first time in a long, long while that Robert had felt happy. Really, truly happy.

He doesn’t know what happiness is anymore.

He drains his whiskey and chews on the rocks as he watches thick clouds hide the moon from view. It’s full, not as much as it was last night, and he can’t help but grin a little at that. Of course Joseph is in the woods picking up demonic voices during a full moon.

Why is he thinking about Joseph?

He sighs, and the weight of the air on his chest is like being hit by the train he can hear whistling in the distance. He knows why he’s thinking of Joseph. It’s the same way he thinks of cheap women working street corners. He thinks of Joseph because Joseph thinks of him, and he’s desperate for human contact. He needs a lay, a fuck, or maybe just someone to hold him. He thinks of the way Joseph’s head had rested on his shoulder, and then he’s groaning into the empty glass.

“I fucked up bad, Marilyn. I’m so fucking sorry.”

And then he’s crying. God, he’s crying  _ hard _ . It’s snot and tears and spit and he’s sobbing, pleading that he’s sorry, that he never meant for this to happen. He wanted them to have their little house in the suburbs and their seven dogs and be  _ happy _ , damn it, but now he’s empty handed and worthless. He’s the shittiest excuse for a human being he can think of. Who relapses to try to forget their dead wife? Probably a lot of people, actually, but Robert doesn’t think that. He chides himself for almost dying  _ twice _ , for making Valerie lose not only her mother, but him too. He sobs apologies for relapsing, for wanting to do it. For wanting to go find a cheap whore to do a few lines with before he fucks her and can’t remember. Maybe he fucks a him, he doesn’t know. He just knows he’s fucked up. He’s fucked up so badly, and he’s a horrible person. He’s the worst. He's the worst and he's so, so sorry.

Robert stays in a state of drunkenness for the next few days. Thursday morning sees a text from Joseph about the AA meeting, but he ignores it. In fact, his phone eventually dies because he doesn’t care enough to charge it. That is, not until his well-rationed supply of pot runs out and he’s poking at his phone until the charge hits one percent and it turns on. He taps out a message to Lars at two in the morning, but he knows the guy sleeps about as much as he does, which isn’t much. He places his order, per usual, and waits for the pickup location as he digs around for clothes that don’t smell like the bottom of a bar. He finds his wallet just as his phone buzzes, and eager eyes have to read the message several times before he processes.

[i aint dealin for u anymore man. mary said u were in the hospital. somethin happens to u im too easy to find. sorry dude.]

He sends a flurry of question marks, squinting at his dim screen until the next message rolls in.

[find another dealer]

Of course Mary knows that he almost died. Shit, the entire town probably knows. That’s what he gets for passing out in his front lawn in broad daylight. He understands where Lars is coming from, sure, but that doesn’t mean he’s any less pissed. He’s halfway through typing a response that he won’t do that again, that he won’t overdose or do something stupid, but he erases it. Even drunk, he’s not fond of making promises he can’t keep.

He spends a decent thirty minutes sitting on the floor and thinking. Not thinking about whether or not this is a sign from a higher power that he should seek help or quit on his own, but where he can find another dealer. With the whiskey and the marijuana in his head, it’s a little hard to do that, but he finds his answer soon enough, and he’s pulling his phone off the charger when it’s barely at five percent to start walking.

The Sound Garden has a totally different feel to it when he’s not blown out of his mind, but there must be some big gig tonight because there’s a decent line to get in, even this late at night. Early in the morning? He’s not sure. He forks over the five dollar cover, but the bouncer taking the cash freezes when he sees him. Oh yeah. Didn’t he get kicked out of here last time?

He puts on his best charming grin. Or what he hopes is charming. “Hey big guy. Sorry we got off the wrong foot last time. I’m good.”

The man looks totally nonplussed. “You reek of booze and pot.”

“Yeah, so does half this crowd. And that’s if I’m being generous on the amount of sober people I see here.”

He’s got him there, and either he’s truly the mastermind or the bouncer has just had a long night, because his cover is taken and he’s waved in. There’s a thick crowd of people in here already, most with drinks or blunts in hand, and most of the chairs have been shoved back to expand the pit. It’s some screaming punk band tonight, not really Robert’s style, but he makes a beeline for the bar. Maybe if he’s drunk enough, it won’t bother him.

He leaves with a rum and coke in an overpriced Solo cup, methodically scanning the crowd from the sidelines. He can hardly remember what the kid looks like, and he’s about to give up and just get shitfaced with the bartender with the sick tattoos on her face when someone grabs his arm and nearly makes him spill his drink.

“Robert! Dude! It’s been, like, forever!”

He has no idea who this kid is; scrawny, pale, and with more acne than likely braincells, his hair is dyed an atrocious purple in some kind of undercut and he smells just about as bad as Robert does. But his blank stare must mean something, because the kid cracks up.

“Oh man, sorry! You were  _ totally _ blown last time! You dunno who I am, do ya?”

Despite the fact that this kid is two inches away, he still has to scream to be heard over the music and the general shouting of everyone else. But Robert just nods, not about to strain his unused voice like that, and the kid laughs again.

“Shit, dude! You’re hardcore! Here, take this! The kid stood me up, so you can have his shit! I’m Vince, by the way!”

The kid hands him a huge plastic baggie, and Robert tries his best not to gawk at the contents. There’s a decent five or six ounces of weed in there, plus another baggie inside filled with what looks to be at least a hundred grams of cocaine, and a third little bag with a few tabs of ecstasy. Jesus, what kind of kid was he dealing for?

Vince laughs again, and it’s clear he’s high on something. He’ll probably regret this when he sobers up. “Dude, it’s yours! You got a phone?”

Dumbly, he tucks the gift into the inside pocket of his coat in exchange for his phone. Glancing around, he notices that… well, no one’s really paying them any attention. And if anyone did just see what he got, they don’t care. Honestly, he’s still a little shocked at it all, but whatever. He can ration it out.

Vince pushes his phone back into his hands when he’s finished punching in his number, and he smartly ignores the warning that pops up to tell him he has a low battery. Instead, Vince launches into a topic that Robert is much too sober to follow, but thirty dollars worth of drinks and a line off the grimy bathroom counter fixes that problem. The band is finished by three thirty, but people are still milling about inside. Last call is at four and Robert is nursing some kind of cocktail that tastes like shit when someone’s hand rests on his shoulder. He thinks it might be Vince again, but when he looks up (Why is he sitting on the floor?) he sees someone who’s just about the opposite. His skin is dark, eyes only blown a little from the smoke that’s clogged the air in here. But it’s hard to see them through his glasses, and a quick glance confirms that the hot Hispanic woman behind him is indeed clinging to his shoulder. Damn.

“Hey, Robert, dude, are you okay?”

Fucking shit, why does everyone know his name?

The guy blinks. “Um, because we’ve met…?”

Ah, he said that out loud. He shrugs off the hand although it felt really nice, offering his drink. “This tastes like shit.” Yeah, that’ll get him to drink it.

The guy laughs nervously, the woman behind him saying something that Robert can’t catch. He nods, then turns back to Robert to offer his hand. “Yeah, I bet. Hey, um, don’t you wanna get off the floor…?”

“Why, ‘s this your spot?” Fuck, he’s slurring. And even if he wasn’t and even if he did take that hand to stand, he’d bet money on the fact he’d fall right over again.

He looks totally uncomfortable at this situation, but the woman behind him squeezes his tattooed arm. Oh, she has a ring. Wife, then? Whatever. “My name’s Mat. We live in the same cul-de-sac, remember? I, er,  _ we _ were wondering if you needed a ride home?”

Man, Mat is awkward. Has he ever held a conversation before?

Oh. Judging by the look on his face, he just said that out loud too. Whoops.

“You’re really drunk,” the woman finally says, still half-hidden behind Mat’s shoulder. “Let us drive you home.”

Of course it’s the hot girl that convinces him. Though, it’s a decision both she and Mat most likely regret, because the second the car hits twenty miles an hour, he’s leaning out of the open backseat window to projectile vomit into the street. At least he didn’t get any on the interior of such a shitty Volkswagen van, right?

And then he’s right back where he was before the hospital. Well, maybe not  _ that _ bad… All that he knows is that suddenly it’s October and Joseph texts him every Saturday night about coming to church or asking if he went to AA. Somehow Mat got his number and keeps him up to date with bands playing at the Sound Garden, but also does his best little awkward check-ins asking if he’s okay or if he needs someone to talk to. Vince sends him a few texts, hooks him up with some more cocaine and weed cheaper than Lars ever did, but when he texts him about mundane stuff or whatever his high teenage brain thinks up? He ignores them all. He becomes, once more, the drunk, high shut-in of the cul-de-sac. TV, free porn, and a stub of a whittling project that looks a bit like Marilyn are his only friends, and he sleeps on the couch moreso than his bed. 

He visits the outlook he found a few times, enjoys the view, contemplates jumping off the ledge. He never does it, just thinks about it. He tries his own experiments to get the demon in the woods to talk to him, but ends up empty-handed. Joseph was probably just fucking with him or something. Neither one of them have even talked about it since, and there’s no local lore to back it up.

When he gets too lonely, though, he finds himself at Jim and Kim’s. Mary’s still out with the baby, so he talks to Neil. Well, Neil talks to him and he nods every now and then or gives his input. Talks about business, about how it gets so dead in Maple Bay in the cold seasons. Warns him that he’ll start seeing the harbor empty out as long-term tourists leave for their winter homes in Florida and that things are going to get a lot more boring. Robert laughs and tells him it’s already boring. Neil just gives a somber nod and tops off his glass for last call.

Halloween is only a week away when Joseph sends him a text inviting him to the local Halloween block party. He denies, though only to get another message immediately after, asking if he would be passing out candy for the kids. He hadn’t even thought about it; the thought of kids in varying degrees of cute and creepy costumes coming to his door for sweets hadn’t crossed his mind. He knows his reputation is already bad within the cul-de-sac, so he doesn’t see how he should redeem himself by throwing Snickers bars at kids that don’t need more cavities. Joseph sends him a frowny face in reply, and on the day of Halloween itself, he gets another text from Joseph of who he assumes to be Chris, looking very upset in a cowboy outfit. He looks like he either shit himself or just got done with a tantrum. Maybe both.

[i’m surprised u didn’t dress him up like jesus]

[Haha! The kids on the block do a theme every year and this year is the old west. Brian should be by soon to pick him up and then I’ll be free.]

There’s an implication there, but Robert can’t place what it is. He just frowns for a moment before he replies.

[u give me a hard time abt not givin out candy and ur not even giving any out??? what kind of christian r u]

[The kind that has to run a trunk-or-treat at the church. You’re welcome to come!]

[i’ll pass. there’s a steven king marathon on rn]

[Oooh, scary! I’ll pass on that!]

[didnt invite u anyway. just me n the gang]

There’s a lull in the conversation, but he’s grinning at the reply.

[Gang?]

[maryjane, jack daniels, and pennywise]

[Definitely passing on that! Have a good night and be safe, Robert! I need to get ready!]

[u dressin up in that slutty nun costume??]

There’s a good five minute pause, during which Robert takes the liberty to light up another blunt as It goes to commercial break. He almost forgets about the conversation until his phone buzzes on the coffee table, and he nearly chokes on smoke at what he sees.

It’s a picture of a computer screen on some hokey Halloween site that’s advertising clearance starting November first. But the costume Joseph has pulled up is probably the sluttiest nun outfit Robert has ever seen. It belongs on a porn site, honestly--

[wait is that a porn site????]

No reply. He smashes more question marks and sends them.

[No, it’s an adult clothing and retail store. (:]

[ur the worst christian ever]

[Only God judges, Robert. Don’t you remember the sermon?]

[does god approve of that outfit???]

Another pause. Robert scrolls back up to look at the picture, trying to imagine Joseph in it. It’s a lot easier than he thought it would be. He’d look good in fishnets. Really, he’d look good in anything other than the khaki-polo getup he has going on. Especially good naked. On a yacht. But without the suicidal thoughts and sea sickness.

He scrolls back down when his pants get tight to see that Joseph has responded.

[Do you approve?]

Shit. What does he say? Is he honestly coming onto him right now or is he just playing the bit? Did he just find that on Google or something? Is he testing how much of a dirty sinning devil Robert is right now?

He’s hardly breathing when he hits send.

[i mean if ur in it i approve. u’d look good in anything as close to naked as that]

That was too much, wasn’t it? Fuck, that was too much. Way too much. Pennywise, kill him now.

When his phone buzzes again, it takes every shred of courage for him to peek at it.

[;) Now now. I need to go to the trunk-or-treat. Let me know if you need anything! I’ll sneak you some of Mrs. Tabot’s cookies.]

Oh, fucking smite him where he lay. He ends up rubbing one out to the image of Joseph in a slutty nun outfit talking in that big, booming,  _ commanding _ voice to him and oh  _ fuck _ what’s wrong with him?

He falls asleep sometime in the early morning, some Hitchcock marathon starting up, tucked under a blanket on the couch. He’s high and drunk and horny and a little spooked by all the horror movies, but he’s ready for the nightmare when it comes. After a night like that, who wouldn't have a healthy dose of fucked up nightmares? He’s not ready for what he gets.

He’s sitting in the passenger seat of the BMW as Marilyn drives, Tom Waits a low hum on the radio. They’re driving through Maple Bay, windows down, evening encroaching. He knows by the paper bags at his feet that they’ve been grocery shopping, and the idea of a home cooked meal makes his stomach growl. Marilyn pays him no attention, singing softly to the music. It’s kind of funny how she lowers her voice to try to match Tom Waits when her own is so beautiful in its own right. Robert once told her she could become famous with that voice. She said she was scared of crowds and performing and kept her singing to the shower or the car. The places where Robert was her only audience. It irritated him for a while, but now he understands what a privilege it was.

The sky is turning a dark amber orange as the sun drops below the horizon of the harbor, and Robert knows he could get used to this. It’s so nice out here, so different. The salt in the air instead of car exhaust, the long masts of sailboats instead of piercing New York skyline. They’re the only car on the road, the only people on earth, and he would be okay with that.

He glances out of the front windshield just in time to see it.

It’s huge, hulking and black. It has legs, long arms, he’s not really sure. A human, but not. Not an animal either. It runs out in front of them like a spooked deer and Marilyn screams, slamming onto the brakes and jerking the wheel. The car hits a pothole and he’s clinging to the dash as the road is replaced by the green of a little park area  and suddenly he’s standing outside of a car crash as the BMW’s automated system calls 911. 

_ Your god is fucked, and so are you. _

He wakes with a start, nearly falling off of the couch. A scream dies on his lips as he swears he sees that big black _thing_ run by his window. He hears sirens outside and sprints to the door, throwing it open. He expects to see Marilyn tangled in the remains of a car, maybe some kind of creature hiding in his hedges, but--

It’s the tangled remains of an old Volkswagen van.

Slammed right into a light post hard enough to knock it over. The thing is shattered in Joseph’s front lawn, the van half on the curb. It’s totally smashed, though EMTs are dragging someone out of the wreckage. A fire truck arrives on the scene and hooks up to a hydrant, hosing down the smoking engine and the beginnings of a small fire on Joseph’s lawn. And there’s Joseph, sitting on the curb with his arms around Mat, who is covered in blood that might not be his, clinging to a toddler that’s screaming.

Joseph locks eyes with him as he steps off his porch, though he has to look away. He has to look at who they’re toting into an ambulance. Who they’re pulling a white sheet over as the toddler and her father wail along with sirens.

Mat Sella’s wife is dead at twelve noon on November first.


	4. God's Away on Business

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I was sick all week, plus this weekend was Mabon, so I didn't get much done. But here we are, and I hope it's worth the wait!
> 
> For updates, you can follow me on [tumblr](https://degraded-psychotic.tumblr.com).
> 
> As a bonus, here's the meme-y version (the song itself isn't edited) for [ the chapter's song. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U5X4N2exOsU)
> 
> There's some good shit this chapter and a smidgen of bondage, but honestly it's so small that it doesn't need a warning.

It can’t be a coincidence. It cannot be a fucking coincidence.

Then again, it very well could have been. He was hungover and freaked out when he woke up. It’s totally possible he mistook a car or a police officer or something for that shadow that passed his window. The crash could have been purely accidental, maybe the wheel locked or…

It’s been a week, and he’s trying to smooth out the same semi-formal suit he wore to Valerie’s graduation for the funeral. He hitched a ride with Damien out of his better judgement, and he’s honestly not surprised that he’s wearing Victorian-era mourning clothes. Big hat and all. It seems kind of inappropriate, but at least with Damien’s over-dressing and his own under-dressing, they even out somehow.  Damien’s son looks like he wants to be anywhere but here, and he has such a sulk that it reminds him of Ernest. He keeps tugging at his tie, and Robert can only imagine the argument that ended in Lucien wearing only half of a Victorian suit. The kid looks depressed enough already without the goth look.

The Maple Bay funeral home they’ve arrived at is bigger than the cramped one in Brooklyn, staff in neat suits and dresses handing pamphlets out as they say somber welcomes with plastic-sad faces. There’s quite a crowd, and they actually have to wait in line before they can get out of the stiff autumn wind and into a warm, plush entryway. The pamphlet is smooth and glossy in Robert’s hand, but he doesn’t look at it. Why hadn’t he gotten these stupid little things for Marilyn’s funeral…?

Lucien breaks off as soon as he spots Ernest, Damien steering Robert towards where Mat sits on a plush chaise, eyes red as he tries to clean dried tears from his glasses with his shirt.

“Mat,” Damien begins softly, taking a seat beside him so delicately that he must think Mat is about to shatter. Truth is, it looks like he shattered a while ago. “I’m so sorry… Please, let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

Mat sniffs, replacing his glasses so he can see the man sitting beside him. “Thanks, Danielle, I--” He realizes his mistake and goes wide-eyed, grabbing for Damien’s hands. “Damien! Damien, I’m so sorry, I forgot--”

Damien shushes him, squeezing those dark hands in his. There’s a brace on his left wrist, but other than that and a few healing cuts on his face, it doesn’t look like the crash hurt him at all. “It’s alright. You have too much on your mind now to worry about me.”

Mat takes a shuddering breath, but nods. He relinquishes Damien’s hands, awkwardly folding them into his own lap. He seems to notice Robert for the first time, and he honestly seems surprised that he’s here. “R-Robert? You didn’t have to come…”

Robert gives him a look, stuffing the pamphlet into the back pocket of his slacks. He tries not to think how baggy this whole outfit is on him compared to what it was back in May. “I wanted to. You helped me through some shit, so I help you. It’s what friends are for, or whatever.”

Mat slowly smiles, but despite being genuine, it’s short-lived. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel indebted or anything.”

Robert holds up his hands, a little alarmed at Mat’s state. Blaming himself for everything, sitting here looking like a man torn apart… It’s like looking in a mirror. A better looking mirror. “Stop right there. Can I talk to you in private?”

Mat looks a little taken aback, but his eyes quickly move to find Carmensita. She’s in a little black dress, toting around a baby doll as she chats to a redhaired toddler her age. A large man is crouching by them to entertain them, his entire suit screaming at the seams during such a position.

“Carmensita will be alright. She has Daisy and Brian looking out for her, it seems,” Damien reassures, patting Mat’s shoulder. “Go on.”

The amount of willpower and energy that Mat seems to need just to stand up hurts Robert in ways he didn’t know. Was he like this at Marilyn’s funeral? Probably… honestly, he doesn’t remember most of it. He was in tears the entire time. It’s a miracle he hadn’t tripped over the casket at some point.

The main entrance branches off into two separate directions. One leads to the viewing room, where most of the people have gathered, and the other leads to a hallway with a sign that says RESTROOMS and KITCHEN. Robert leads him into the kitchen, which is just a small room with a couple folding tables with chairs and a counter filled with donuts and little pinwheel sandwiches. There are only a couple people in here, and they give Mat a soft greeting before they trail out with paper plates of junk food. They’re alone now, so Robert takes a seat in one of the cheap chairs, gesturing for Mat to do the same. The man sits across from him, but doesn’t look at him. He’s fiddling with his hands under the table.

“Mat.”

He glances up at his name, taking a deep breath. “Sorry, sorry, I…”

Robert rolls his eyes, leaning back in his chair. It groans against the linoleum. “Stop apologizing. None of this shit is your fault.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he feels emotion threaten to choke him. He swallows it down, though it burns like warm whiskey, because he knows Mat needs to hear this. He knows that  _ he _ needs to hear this. “You just lost your wife in an accident, which wasn’t your fault. It’s not your fault that your emotions are all fucked up right now and your brain’s in a million pieces. Trust me, I know. I won’t say it gets better, because it hasn’t gotten better for me yet, but you still have something to live for. My daughter’s grown. Yours is still a baby. You gotta live for her, because she ain’t gonna have anyone else to do it for her. Just promise me that much; that you’ll live for her.”

He nods, tugging a wad of mostly clean tissues from his pocket. “Yeah, yeah. Of course… I love her so much, I could never… I love her so much.”

Robert nods, letting Mat get a few good nose-blows and eye dabs in before he calms again. Someone comes in to snag a donut, but quickly leaves at the look Robert shoots them. He sits up straighter, folding his hands on the table to lean close.

“I noticed when they pulled the car away that the airbags didn’t deploy. And the crash… it was all on the driver’s side. Windshield was shattered, but the driver’s side…”

Mat nods, looking on the verge of panic. Robert doesn’t go into anymore detail.

“Why did she swerve? She couldn’t have been going over twenty, but the level of the crash… What happened?”

He hears the Velcro of the wrist brace hiss as Mat plays with it. He's likely answered this question to police, EMTs, family, insurance agents… but he answers again, mumbling it like a practiced script. He's looking down at his hands. Robert has to lean forward to hear him over the Velcro of his brace that he keeps playing with.

“I was turned around and talking to Carmensita… we were going to a preschool open house. I heard Jazmin yell and when I turned around, all I saw was the pole. I saw something out of the corner of my eye, but… I think it was a dog.”

A dog.

No one in the cul-de-sac has a dog. At least, he's never seen or heard one.

“It was my idea to go out, so I should have --”

Robert slaps the table, startling Mat into looking at him. “Cut that shit out. You coulda done a lot of things, but this is what happened. There's no use in wondering about what ifs like that. I know it hurts, believe me, but you can't do anything about it.”

Marilyn is dead, and he can't do anything about it.

Marilyn is dead, Valerie has left him, and there’s nothing he can do about it now.

“S-sorry,” he manages, getting a frustrated groan from Robert. He opens his mouth to say something else, but Carmensita comes sprinting in, immediately attaching herself to her father’s side. He blinks down at her before he scoots his chair back and pulls her onto his lap. He whispers something into the curls of her hair and she nods, sniffing a sob loudly against his dark shirt. It’s enough to cue Robert that he’s intruding on something personal, and he gives Mat a nod before he grabs a donut and leaves the room.

The service starts after a few moments, and the entire funeral home is full. Robert sits near the back, far enough that he has to crane his neck around to see the podium and the casket that’s nearly drowning in flowers. Jazmin clearly came from a huge family, and the whispers range from English to Spanish to Italian. He can catch onto some of the Spanish from his own family, but if he’s honest, it’s a lot more rusty than it should be. Either way, it’s still a bit awkward, considering that no one really knows him here. He sees Mary and Damien near the front, but declined their offer to join them. He doesn’t really want to sit next to a sobbing pregnant woman anyway… Though honestly, the real reason is because being that close to a dead body kinda freaks him out. 

Joseph takes the podium first, smiling politely as he waits for the crowd to quiet into soft sobs and sniffles. He’s in his priestly garb again, his role here obviously not one as a simple guest. When he speaks, Robert is shocked when it comes out in Spanish, voice as strong and sure of itself as ever. He gives a short speech in the language, so fluent that Robert missed a few things, before he switches to English.

“I would like to thank you all for coming this afternoon to celebrate the life of Jazmin Sella. She left us too soon, though we must find strength in the knowledge that she is happy and safe in our Father’s loving arms, watching over us even now. She does leave several things unfinished in her wake, and one of those things is a dream she and her loving husband had been working on for years. A small storefront has been for sale, and they finally raised enough money and open their own coffee shop in its place. Money has now become tight, as you can imagine, and I have personally opened a fundraiser to supply the money needed to open The Coffee Spoon. A donation box is in the foyer on your way out, and it will continue to remain open at the Maple Bay Baptist Church. Any donations are greatly appreciated and welcome.” He pauses, turning a page on a script he wrote for himself. “I will now invite you all to a prayer, in Jazmin’s native language.”

Heads are bowed and eyes are shut as Joseph speaks, a unified “amen” echoing through the room when he finishes. People approach the podium to share stories and memories in their own languages, Mat sobbing so hard that he couldn’t get out much more than “she was all I ever needed” before he’s swarmed by relatives and guided back to his seat. Joseph guides the group in a few more prayers before he picks up a six string and sings a bilingual rendition of Saving Grace that leaves not a single dry eye in the place, including Robert.

Stupid Joseph. He can sing, he knows fluent Spanish, he can play guitar… How in the world is that fair?

Maple Bay takes a somber tone after the death of Jazmin, or perhaps it’s just the typical feeling of autumn. Robert keeps himself busy with diving deeper into any supernatural lore of the area, and his obsession unknowingly helps his drug crutch. He spends nights with coffee and the glow of his computer instead of doing lines off the kitchen table, and within a couple weeks he’s finally found something that might be an answer.

The Dover Ghost.

Dover is a small town further inland of Massachusetts, about an hour southwest of Maple Bay. The ghost was an entity seen by several people in the seventies, though not since. Most people screamed alien, but there were a few tales in the sixties and fifties that it would randomly vanish or appear. Other reports surfaced in the nineties, when people claimed to see it in their dreams. Now, Robert knows to read cryptid sightings with a grain of salt, as mob mentality or the desire to be famous are strong, but when he clicks on an image of the creature, his blood goes cold.

Its head is too big, arms too long, body too crooked. It’s black with faintly glowing eyes, a shadow of a thing that isn’t entirely real. Like a human, but poorly put together.

It’s exactly what he saw in the dream.

He doesn’t know how long he stares at the sketch until he’s ripped from it by his phone buzzing loudly on the wood of the desk. He startles so badly that his knees slam into the underside of the drawer that holds his keyboard, and he spends a moment in pained agony to cuss out a stream of words to make a sailor blush before he picks up his phone to see the text.

_ Good morning Robert! Knowing you, you probably haven’t slept yet, but I thought I would extend the invite regardless. The weather is going to be taking a turn soon, and I wanted to take the yacht out one last time before I have to winterize it. I’ll be leaving around noon if you want to come! _

Honestly, Robert’s a little surprised that after vomiting on the shiny wooden floors that he’s even welcome aboard anymore. But he’s spooked himself with all this Dover Ghost research, and getting off land and onto the sea would probably do him some good.

_ sure if ur not scared i’ll puke again _

The reply is almost instant. Impressive for seven in the morning.

_ I have faith in you! The waves can get a little rougher this time of year, but I’ll take her out farther to avoid it. Dress warm! _

Robert knows he should probably nap beforehand, considering he’s been up since yesterday afternoon, but now that he’s seen a sketch of the same being he saw in a dream, and possibly the same creature that caused Jazmin’s death, he’s a bit too nervous to do so. It’s odd, though; he’s never been scared of cryptids or spirits before. He knows they exist, and being scared of them is just the same as being scared of something as equally common, like a tree or blade of grass. They’re everywhere; Marilyn’s spirit is probably in this house somewhere, along with those of the people that lived here before. Yet something about this Dover Ghost has him inexplicably spooked, and he has to shut down his computer before he freaks himself out any further.

He does end up napping on his couch, though unintentional during an episode of some morning talk show. The only thing that wakes him up is the knocking on his front door, and he’s grumbling a “yeah, I’m comin’” when he grabs a light blue sweater off the floor to put on. It smells clean enough.

Joseph is all smiles and folded hands when he opens the door. He’s in such an ugly sweater that it would have made Bill Cosby cringe, but the cold that comes rushing into the house is all the explanation he needs.

“Ready to set sail?”

Robert checks his pockets; wallet, phone, keys, cigarettes, all accounted for. He’s got socks on, so he slides on his shoes before stepping outside. “It’s a yacht, not a sailboat.”

Joseph laughs softly, heading for the van that he’s parked on the curb as Robert locks up. “I’ve always wanted a sailboat.”

“You seriously complaining about having a yacht?”

He shoots him a grin as they get into the van. Instead of Christian music, it’s Jimmy Buffet. Robert supposes that he can deal with it over the alternative. “I never said that.”

They’re quiet for a moment as they leave the cul-de-sac. The construction signs are finally down, the street light back upright and the scene of the crash nothing more than a set of skid marks on the sidewalk. They pass an empty storefront where the FOR SALE has been changed to SOLD, but no one seems to be working on it. 

“I was going to ask Mat along,” Joseph begins, reaching to turn down the radio a notch so he doesn’t have to raise his voice. “He and Carmensita are down in Jersey with Jazmin’s parents until New Year’s, I guess.” It’s a segway, Robert can tell, and he’s already prepared with his answer before he asks, “Do you have any plans for the holidays?”

“Nope.”

He frowns. “Really?”

Marilyn’s dead. Valerie hasn’t answered any calls or texts. “I might sacrifice a small child to Turkey Jesus on Thanksgiving.”

Joseph forces a laugh. “Well, you know my door is always open. You’re more than welcome to come over.”

“I’m good.”

“What about--”

He holds up a hand, almost hitting the rosary that’s hanging from the passenger side mirror. “I don’t do small talk, and I don’t do holidays.” That last bit is a lie, but whatever. Joseph doesn’t have to know that he and Marilyn would always go all-out for Thanksgiving and Christmas. The way they would take Valerie to see all the superstore Santas when she was little, and when she outgrew it, how they’d go just to see the other kids. How they would be eating turkey for a week after Thanksgiving. Or the time they made it to downtown for the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade.

Though, as he remembers this while staring out the window at the passing town, he realizes that the memories don’t hurt as much as they did. He’s come to accept it. Marilyn is dead. She has been for a while, now. Maybe… Maybe he’s over the shock of it, now. The truth has sunk into his bones. It’s a part of him now. 

They pull into an empty parking lot at the harbor and the  _ St. Peter _ towers where other boats once stayed. There’s a few small sailboats or motorboats here or there, but for the most part, it seems like Joseph is late on pulling his boat out. Then again, how the  _ hell _ does Joseph pull a boat that big out of the harbor? Where does he put it? A minivan cannot possibly tow that thing, let alone the size of trailer it would need.

The wind is harsher by the ocean, spraying salt water into the cold air that stings his skin. The waves are uneven and broken by the time they reach the shore, battering against the pier and crushing their white caps into sea foam. It’s not exactly what Robert would call  _ good weather _ , but the sea air does make him feel a bit better. Whether or not if it’s going to make him sick in a few hours, he has no idea.

He follows Joseph down the pier as he releases a few ropes and climbs aboard. The deck is a bit slick with seawater, so Robert makes sure to stand still lest he wipe out as more ropes are released and a button is pressed to raise the anchor. 

“Come inside,” Joseph invites, stepping into the bridge area. There’s a panel of buttons and a steering wheel, but Robert makes a beeline for a cushioned chair seated in front of a window as Joseph backs them out of the harbor. He flips a few switches and presses some buttons and Robert can definitely feel the rocking of the waves, but it doesn’t make him sick this time. Good call on his part for being sober.

“Would you like some wine?”

Sober was never really in Robert’s vocabulary anyway.

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” he answers, leaning back in the chair. Joseph chuckles as he sinks down on the other chair next to him, both of them watching the fading of the harbor. 

“The bottles and glasses are downstairs in the cabin. I’ll get them once we get out far enough.”

“Don’t be such a damn tease. I’ll go get it. The sooner we drink, the better, right?”

He laughs, kicking his feet up on an ottoman. “Alright. I have to stay up here in case there’s any icebergs.”

“Guess that leaves more booze for me.”

“Alcohol doesn’t make you blind, Robert.”

“It does if you drink too much.”

Joseph snorts. “Uh huh. Well, the wine’s in the cupboard.”

Robert makes it down to the cabin with no incident, though once he gets down there, he takes it upon himself to do a fair bit of snooping. There’s some knick knacks here and there, a few clothes, but it’s a small bookshelf that draws his attention. He can’t help but grin at the contents, though he fetches the wine and glasses before he’s too tempted to crack one open.

Joseph claps his hands at the delivery, taking the bottle so he can tug out the cork. It’s only missing about one glass’s worth of wine, and when he begins to pour himself a decent sized glass, Robert speaks up and almost makes him drop the bottle.

“ _ Hot Body Johnson _ , huh?”

Joseph splutters, setting the wine on the counter as he fishes for a response. But it’s nothing he can excuse himself out of, and his cheeks turn pink as he mumbles into his wine. “It’s a good series.”

Robert shrugs, pouring himself a glass so full that it’s liable to spill in the rocking of the waves. “Sure, but something tells me those rope books aren’t for boat maintenance.”

“Robert--”

Now that he’s got him on the subject, it’s about time he brought it up. “Also, was that sexy nun outfit just a tease, or what?”

Joseph is now blushing all the way down to the collar of his ugly sweater, stem of his glass pinched between two fingers. He looks like a deer in the headlights, but as if a switch is flipped, he sips his wine and he’s smiling.

“So… you really were coming onto me, or were you joking too?”

_ Too _ . Okay, so the sexy nun thing isn’t happening. Damn. “All I’m saying is when I called you sexy, I wasn’t lying.”

Joseph is still smiling, leaning against the counter as Robert upends his glass as if his wine is whiskey. He needs some liquid courage. “I didn’t think you would be interested in a relationship like that, considering… what you went through.”

Marilyn’s death. Just say it. Why does everyone have to beat around the bush about it?

He grabs the bottle, pouring a normal sized glass this time. “Yeah, well I slept around before that anyway. I’m an addict of many things, Joseph.”

He arches a brow. “Sex addict?”

He shrugs. “I get tired of my hand. I’m almost forty and I have a lot of energy to waste before I lose it all to manopause.”

Joseph’s smile falters for a bit before he busts out laughing. Robert giggles, sipping at the wine. It’s strong; must be well-aged. “Manopause? Is that what they call it?”

He shrugs. “That’s what I call it.”

Joseph takes a breath to calm his laughter, glancing to his wine before back up at Robert. “So… is this a proposition?”

Robert cants his head, picking up on what he’s hinting. God, why do people do that? Why not just  _ say _ it? “That I’m interested in seeing just how much you like  _ Hot Body Johnson _ and your rope books? Sure, let’s have a fucking book club meeting.”

He snorts, shaking his head. He shifts closer so subtly that Robert doesn’t even notice until Joseph speaks and he can feel the warmth of his breath on his face. “I think you know what I mean.”

Whoa, wait.

He blinks, and in that span of time, Joseph’s hand has found his hip. The heat of his skin leaks through his sweater and jeans at the joint, and he doesn’t miss the way those blue eyes dart to his lips at the same time Robert licks wine from them. It’s the same feeling that he got in his kitchen all those weeks ago, but stronger. Strong enough to send tingles of goosebumps up his arms and to the back of his neck. Sure, he’s thought about sex with Joseph, even going so far as to masturbating to him, but something about this…

There’s a red flag going up.

Not that Robert has ever listened to red flags.

“Why don’t you ever say what you mean?” he asks, voice low as he shifts. He finishes his wine, setting the glass aside without looking away. He steps closer, noting the slight height difference between them. Joseph probably has three inches over him, just enough so that he has to crane his head up but not enough that it’s uncomfortable. “If you brought me out here to fuck, just say it.”

Joseph grins, setting his own glass aside. His free hand shifts, fingers pressing to the bare skin of Robert’s hip. The touch almost  _ burns _ . “I wasn’t being as subtle as I thought, was I?”

“You didn’t actually ask Mat to come, did you?”

He chuckles, both hands now on his hips. The red flags are burning and the sirens blaring in Robert’s head, but goddamn if he’s actually going to pay attention to it. “No… Though I do know he’s out of town.”

“And me propositioning you is just playing along?”

“It makes this a mutual agreement.”

“Then what the fuck are you waiting for?”

That seems to be all Joseph needs before their lips press together. It’s not a chaste, soft first kiss, though. No nerves, no uncertainty. No, they both know what they want, and they’re not about to be two teenage virgins about it. No, the kiss is biting and messy, tasting of wine, Joseph’s hands bruising at his hips as Robert’s hands finally get their chance to card through that perfectly combed blond hair to ruin it. They’re out of breath when Robert finds himself being lifted to sit on the counter, knocking a wine glass to shatter on the floor. That’s the only thing that parts them, and Joseph lets out a small giggle at it.

“Oops… I suppose we ought to go downstairs?”

Robert snickers, pulling his hands out of Joseph’s hair. It looks ridiculous now, hairspray making it stand up on the sides, but he takes a bit of pride in the fact that he’s the one that did it. “Yeah, and what about the icebergs?”

Joseph huffs as he pulls away, stepping aside to the controls. He checks a few things and hits a few buttons, adjusting the wheel. Robert hears the engine stop, the boat beginning to drift. The harbor is already a fleck of color in the distance, the wake of the waves a bit softer and without their caps out here. He hits the button to drop the anchor before flipping a couple more things, stepping back with a grin and something in his eyes that makes Robert shiver.

“There. No icebergs.”

“Sharks?”

Joseph flashes his teeth, coming back to cage himself between Robert’s legs where he sits on the counter still. “Just me.”

“If you’re actually going to eat me, I got bad news.”

Joseph hums, leaning forward with Robert’s neck in his sights. His lips press there before they turn back to expose his teeth, and Robert arches with a hiss as he feels them dig into his skin. Not enough to draw blood, but he’ll have a bruise from it.

He tugs down his collar, joke already forgotten. It was something to do with the scar on his chest, to claim that a shark got him when in all reality, it was from a bike crash almost a decade ago. The last time he and Valerie actually did something together.

But this isn’t the time to be thinking about her. Really, Robert’s brain has gone a bit blank, hands clinging to Joseph’s biceps as those teeth move from his throat to his shoulder, where he finally bites hard enough to draw blood. A cry leaves Robert’s lips, though it morphs to a moan as Joseph sucks at the spot and a hand squeezes his thigh.

“So,” he pants, Joseph’s hand sliding up his thigh and under his sweatshirt to challenge his ability to speak, “downstairs?”

Joseph’s mouth comes off of his skin with an audible pop, a grin on the youth minister’s face as his hands slip under Robert’s rear. “Hold on,” is the only warning he gives before he lifts, and Robert is clinging to him like a child. 

“Holy shit--”

“You’re light,” Joseph explains, bumping the door open with his hip as they make their way downstairs. And he’s not lying; though Robert hasn’t been intaking the amount of drugs he used to be, that doesn’t mean his appetite is back. He honestly can’t remember his last meal. Self-destruction seems to be the only thing he does anymore, the only thing he’s done for years if he’s honest, and this is just part of it. Fuck the neighbor, hate himself for it later. Whatever.

Joseph drops him onto the bed, earning a yelp for his rough treatment. He crawls onto the bed to cage Robert’s hips between his knees, stretching his arms up to remove his god-awful sweater. And my god, what Robert was missing.

The peek of a tattoo he had always seen is an anchor on his bicep, though that only gets a minor moment of attention from Robert. He pays more attention to the hills and valleys of muscle on Joseph’s pale skin, the fuzz of blond hair on his chest and the slightly darker shade that leads down to the hem of his damned khakis. Robert can’t help but moan, hands reaching to touch as if he’s unsure if it’s real. But Joseph catches his hands by his sleeves, and he arches his back to make it easier for him to pull off his sweatshirt and the t-shirt he’s wearing beneath it. Pale hands take a moment to run over the chest he’s exposed, the scar that runs along it.

“Shark attack,” he explains.

Joseph laughs, thumbing the thicker edge of the scar. “I’m sure it is.” He glances up at Robert’s arms, still over his head where they dropped after being freed of his sleeves. “You’re okay with being tied up?”

It’s not the question Robert was expecting, though he realizes the submissive pose he’s taken a beat later than Joseph has. Red flags again. Whatever. “Yeah. Show me all your fancy knots.”

“Sit up, then,” he instructs as he gets off of Robert, crawling so he can reach the bedside table. He pulls the drawer open, Robert peeking over his shoulder and going hot when he sees what’s in there. A cord of white rope, a couple bottles of lube, and a nice, small collection of sex toys.

“This your sex dungeon?”

Joseph grins as he grabs out the rope, snapping the drawer shut. “Something like that. It’s hard to have a sex life when your kid is home.”

He huffs a laugh, crossing his legs. “Preachin’ to the choir.”

Trying to have sex in an apartment with thin walls is one thing, but an apartment with thin walls and a daughter is a whole different challenge. Having a yacht to have sex on is pretty much the ideal answer to that.

“How good are your knees?”

Robert blinks at him, but gets where he’s going with this. He grins at him as he watches those hands start to unwind the rope, insides buzzing with anticipation. “If you’re asking if I can ride you, I can.”

Joseph goes red down to his chest. Clearly, that wasn’t the direction his own mind was going. Awkwardly, he clears his throat, but he’s obviously on board with that plan. “Not what I had in mind, but I’m not gonna say no.”

Robert grins, though Joseph asks him to turn and cross his arms over the small of his back. He sits perfectly still as the rope (softer than it looks) winds around his skin. It’s nothing extreme like what he’s seen in porn. Actually, all Joseph does is tie his forearms and wrists together. He uses a shorter portion of the rope to do it, and the rest is tossed to the floor where their sweaters are. Making sure that Robert is moderately comfortable, Joseph steps back to undress the both of them. Socks, shoes, pants, and underwear end up on the floor, though there’s not much sexy about the way he does it. Robert’s gone a bit soft at it all, but Joseph hasn’t. 

And of course he’s hung. Uncut and thick. There’s literally no fucking flaws to Joseph and it’s simultaneously the most obnoxious and sexy thing about him.

Though, now that he’s seen it, he realizes that it’s been  _ years _ since he’s had anything inside of him and there’s no way it’s going in.

“I hate to rain on this parade,” he starts, still staring openly as Joseph’s cock bounces on his stomach as he crawls to sit on Robert’s thighs, pale hands stroking from his thighs to his hips and back again, “but there’s no way that’s going in.”

He pauses before he looks down and laughs, a hand sliding to play with Robert’s inner thigh, just shy of his cock. It’s starting to stir again. “I didn’t think you were a virgin.”

“I’m not,” he cuts across, breath sucking in through his teeth when those fingers find the base of his cock to squeeze. His hands are dry and they drag on his skin, but it doesn’t feel as awful as he’d expect. “I-it’s been a  _ long _ fuckin’ time, though. I take back my offer to ride ya.”

He pouts playfully, both hands beginning to stroke and squeeze Robert until he’s hard. “I was looking forward to that… But we can do something else.”

Before Robert can ask, Joseph is leaning over to the side table again. He pulls out one of the lube bottles he has to set on his thigh, debating for a moment before he pulls out a slim blue vibrator instead. It’s longer than the other option in the drawer, but much thinner. There’s a wire connecting to a remote dial with several settings, and goddamn if Robert isn’t hard.

Joseph’s lips part to ask if it’s alright, though one glance at the way Robert won’t look away from the toy and how hard he is answers that for him. He grins, setting it aside as he gets off Robert’s lap and grabs the lube.

“Roll over.”

There it is. The voice that Robert had fantasized about. The tone that made him squirm in church. Strong,  _ commanding _ . It’s surprising, the effect it has on him. He’s not a submissive person by nature, but he’d do anything for Joseph when he speaks like that.

And that’s dangerous.

But he doesn't care.

The lube is cold when it touches him, and the feeling itself is  _ weird _ . It’s been a while since he’s done this, and with his face against the pillow, ass in the air, arms tied, it’s far from comfortable. Thankfully, Joseph must pick up on his discomfort, because it’s only a moment before he feels cool silicone against his rim. Honestly, he’d been expecting Joseph’s fingers to be opening him up, but the toy isn’t much larger than a finger. It’s even colder than the lube and he arches away for a moment, hissing at the feeling, but there are lips at his shoulder where a bruise is already forming from Joseph’s teeth.

“Relax, Robert… I know you can take this for me.”

He makes a noise that sort of sounds like yes, turning his head more so he can breathe deeper. He closes his eyes and clenches his fists, flexing every muscle he’s got before he releases them all at once. It’s an adrenaline thing he’s learned to do when he feels anxious, and it must work because the toy suddenly slips inside of him with a wet sound, excess lube dripping down to his thighs.

“There you go… Are you comfortable?”

He groans as the toy is very slowly pushed deeper, Joseph well aware of the stretch it creates. It burns, aches, but he forces himself to relax and breathe deeper until it sits inside of him. It reaches deep, making his breaths a bit difficult, and Joseph spends a long while just to pepper loving bites and kisses across the broad expanse of his shoulders.

“Answer me, Robert. You can sit up. It’s all the way in.”

The idea of sitting up to ride a vibrator isn’t as tempting as riding Joseph, but he moves to do so anyway because sitting the way he had been was too awkward. So he sits on his knees, ass not touching the bed, turning to face Joseph to find him sitting there with one hand on the connected controller and the other slowly stroking his erection.

“Well?”

Robert fails to answer again, shifting to feet the toy reaching so deep into him. The burn has subsided to a lower ache, though he continues to force himself to breathe slowly so he stays relaxed enough. Joseph doesn’t seem to approve of this, thumb flicking the dial and bringing the vibrator to life.

Robert arches, a cry on his lips as he nearly falls over. He had switched it immediately onto high, and he’s not sure if he can actually hear the toy whirring beneath him or if it’s just the feeling of it stirring up his insides. He squirms, deep breathing totally forgotten as Joseph drops the intensity down a notch and sets the controller aside. He’s still gasping, squirming, when Joseph leans close enough to bite at his earlobe as his hand reaches down to tug the vibrator out enough so he can thrust it back in in a shallow pace. Robert falls against his shoulder, the burn having faded to a numb tingle.

“You answer me when I ask you questions, Robert. And you do what I say.”

He gasps at the heated whisper, hips canting down automatically when Joseph pulls the toy halfway out but doesn’t push it back in. 

“Do you want this?”

It takes a moment for him to get his breath, and whenever he moves to sink onto the vibrator, Joseph either pulls it out more or his other hand pinches at the inside of his thigh to stop him. 

“Y-yes,” he manages to gasp.

He’s rewarded with the vibrator slamming back into him so hard that Joseph actually loses his grip. Robert’s hips rock down and his back arches, eyes rolling back as the head of the silicone toy bullies against his prostate. Joseph moans at the reaction, dragging the toy out by the cord only to repeat the deeper thrust. He says something that Robert honestly can’t even hear; all he can hear is the vibration and the blood rushing through him. His breathing is hard, sweat beading on his skin and sticking his hair to his forehead. Joseph’s lips are at his neck, biting at his chest, and suddenly the youth minister is between Robert’s legs and nipping at his thighs. The vibrator is turned down to low and Robert whines at it, hands clawing crescents into his palms from where they’re bound.

“P-please, Jo--”

He breaks off into a cry when pretty pink lips part over the head of his cock. Blue eyes dark with arousal make eye contact as he swallows Robert down, masterful of the gag reflex that kicks in when the head of his cock hits the back of his throat. Robert hasn’t gotten head in almost as long as he hasn’t had something up his ass, and the feel of both at once is making his head spin.

Joseph begins to bob his head in rhythm with the little thrusts he gives the vibrator, and it’s simultaneously too much and not enough. Robert squirms, torn between rocking down on the vibrator or up into Joseph’s mouth, panting hard as his legs go numb beneath him. Joseph’s free hand rolls his balls and he feels his abdomen tighten. He’s so close, so close--

“J-Joseph, more,  _ fuck _ , please--”

Joseph pulls his mouth off with a disgustingly wet noise that makes Robert whimper, lips mouthing at the foreskin. “Mm, what do you want?”

He groans, watching Josep reach to turn the vibrator’s dial to OFF. His eyes are swimming with tears.

“Jesus, please, turn it up! Harder, please, I wanna cum--”

He doesn’t normally  _ beg _ during sex. In fact, he doesn’t think he ever has. Joseph is bringing out a side of him that he’s never met, but he likes it. He wants more of it. 

“Turn what up?” he teases, fingers playing with his head and smearing the precum leaking from it. Robert shivers.

“The fuckin’  _ vibrator _ , fuck--”

He’s rewarded with Joseph flicking the dial all the way up again, earning a choked scream from Robert as he shoves it against his prostate. His mouth returns, taking Robert deep as he subtly ruts himself against the mattress. That only turns Robert on more, and he loses feeling in his fingers as that vibrator doesn’t move from his prostate and he arches and writhes and swears his sight gives out as he  _ screams _ .

Joseph swallows down what he’s given, rolling the vibrator against Robert’s prostate to milk it out of him. He comes hard and  _ long _ , having been pent up from the lackluster performance of his own hand. Joseph pulls off when he’s so sensitive that he thinks he might burst into flame, the vibrator still in him, though shallow, as Joseph turns it low. Robert moans, leaning against Joseph’s shoulder to breathe hard and get himself back as the vibrator finally shuts off and slides out of him.

He hasn’t had an orgasm like that in a  _ long _ time.

“Robert,” Joseph calls, any other words having been tuned out when the world vanished during his orgasm. He groans in response and Joseph’s breath hitches, one hand on Robert’s thigh as the other  _ furiously _ strokes his own cock. There’s cum on his lips and face when he smashes teeth and tongue to Robert’s mouth, fucking into his mouth as Robert just barely keeps up. Joseph  _ snarls _ into his mouth before he goes still, a moan rattling in his chest as Robert feels cum splatter onto his stomach and lap. 

Joseph pulls away with a shaky sigh, cupping Robert’s face in his hands, one tacky from lube and the other damp from his cum, kissing him lightly to help the both of them wind down. Hands eventually slide down to blindly release the rope on Robert’s arms, rubbing at them to encourage blood flow.

“Mm, you did so good, Robert… You came apart so pretty for me…”

He moans weakly, fighting the urge to shut his eyes, but Joseph senses his exhaustion. He guides him to lay back as he leaves to the attached bathroom, coming back after brushing his teeth and getting a damp cloth. He cleans off the cum and lube from the both of them before he flops bonelessly into bed beside him, an arm stretching over Robert’s sweaty stomach.

“So how was that?”

Robert turns to look at him, arms limp at his side. Then again, his entire body is limp. He feels like he just ran a marathon. “I feel like I need a damn cigarette.”

Joseph laughs, thumb brushing idly through the hair trailing down Robert’s stomach. He’s so  _ thin _ … “Well, rest up. If you think that was all, you’ve got another thing coming. I don’t have to be home until tomorrow morning.”

If Robert thought he was kidding, he’s quickly corrected. They finish a bottle and a half of wine and eat canned ravioli and crackers from the cupboard between blowjobs, that damn blue vibrator, and Joseph fingering him until he can’t even feel anything below his knees. He’s not allowed to smoke in the cabin, but he chains them on the deck just to get feeling back into his body. They sleep and shower before pulling back into the harbor, listening to Margaritaville as they drive back and Joseph drops him off at his door. 

“What, you gonna kiss me?” Robert teases as he fishes out his keys. He’s only just realized that he left his sweater on the yacht, but considering that he’s  _ limping _ , he doubts that’s the least of his worries.

Joseph grins, stepping a bit closer. “You’re too good at guessing my plans.”

Robert rolls his eyes as he unlocks the door, but doesn’t open it. “You’re way too obvious.”

“Mm, am I?”

He’s already tilting his head up when Joseph leans in to kiss him, a hand cupping his jaw as the kiss starts to turn a bit deeper and a bit more. But Robert leans away, giving him a look.

“I can’t even keep up with your libido, damn. Go home and take a cold shower.”

Joseph giggles, taking a moment to look Robert over before he steps back. “Alright, alright. Have a good Thanksgiving.”

“Yeah, sure.”

He steps into his house and shuts the door before Joseph even gets off his porch. He’s exhausted, and it takes more energy and willpower than he’d like to admit to get upstairs and pass out in his bed. He’s out for almost twelve hours, groaning as he changes clothes and grabs his keys again.

He needs a fucking drink.

It was a fun time, yeah, but now he’s just… confused. He walks his way to Jim and Kim’s while trying to wrap his head around it. He hadn’t thought Joseph was into him, let alone into him enough to essentially have a  _ fuck marathon _ with him. He’s getting too old for shit like that, still a bit of a limp in his step, and he wonders if it will happen again. Or maybe that was just to get it out of their systems. He’s no stranger to one-night stands, and while that was more of a one-day and one-night sexfest, he finds himself doubting it’s going to happen again. For one, Joseph said he was going to be winterizing the yacht, whatever that means. 

He sits delicately at the bar, and judging by the look Neil shoots him, he isn’t as subtle as he likes to think he is. He slides him a whiskey, no ice, and leans against the counter. There’s hardly anyone here tonight, though there’s a table with a trio of men talking lowly over pints of beer.

“You look good,” Neil comments. He then realizes what he’s said, and amends the statement. “I mean, better than usual. The ten ton bags under your eyes are gone. Other than that, you still look like shit.”

Robert gives a smirk, raising his glass in a mock toast. “Finally got laid.”

“I can tell.”

He snorts, sipping at his drink. “That obvious?”

Neil taps at his own neck. “Might wanna wear a scarf.”

He almost chokes on his whiskey. There hadn’t been a mirror on the yacht, though as he leans to the side and catches himself in the mirror behind the bar, he sees what Neil’s talking about. It looks like someone tried to strangle him.

“Congrats, though. Who’s the eager lady?”

Robert slams down the rest of his drink, swallowing hard to feel the way the bruises move against his throat. He knows about the hickies on his chest and thighs and shoulders, but  _ shit _ . He hasn’t been this marked up since he was eighteen. Neil refills him as he answers. “Not a girl, but I got a feeling he’s not the one to kiss and tell.”

Neil just nods, grinning a bit. “Well, good to see you rested and glowing like you got back from a honeymoon.”

Robert rolls his eyes as Neil leaves to serve the table of men. He munches on peanuts as he drinks, only half paying attention to the football game on TV. Neil comes back after a moment, eying the table, though Robert remembers what he needs to ask him.

“Hey, you ever heard of the Dover Ghost?”

Neil huffs a laugh, grabbing a tray of glasses to start polishing. “Nope. Still looking for ghosts?”

“I found one,” he argues, leaning against the counter. “Seriously, have you seen anything weird?”

His eyes dart back over to the table before back to Robert. “Those guys over there are tourists. Staying at the motel down the street. You might wanna go chat ‘em up.”

Robert nods, taking another whiskey with him. The table goes quiet when he approaches, though he doesn’t sit. He doesn’t need to expose his raw ass to this group of strangers. 

“You guys heard of the Dover Ghost?”

One of the men goes pale. Another downs his beer and belches. The third speaks up.

“Dunno if it’s called that, but all three of us had one hell of a night.”

Robert gestures for him to continue. Nervous, he looks at the others, but they don’t object. He inhales before he begins.

“We’re from Rhode Island. Ron here has a crab boat and we were gonna take it up here for one last horrah, y’know the drill. We went out last night and…” He’s pale, hands clenched around his pint. “The waves were big, usual. What wasn't usual was our gear kept malfunctioning. We called the coast guard and they said the fog was too bad to come out… Thing is, we didn’t see any fog. Coast guard said they’d get us in the mornin’, that it was too dangerous. Arguin’ with ‘em didn’t get us anywhere. Then…”

He trails off, but his friend that looks ready to faint continues. “The radio was off, we got so pissed that we shut it down. Kept buzzing, though. Kept hearing this voice. Couldn’t make out a damn word, sounded…”

“Foreign,” the other provides.

“Yeah, like another language. Radio was off, though. No lights, nothin’. Just this voice. It talked for, what?”

“Over an hour.”

“Yeah, we went down to the cabins ‘cause it was too weird.”

“Coast guard wasn’t comin’ ‘til morning, so we went to sleep.”

“At least, tried.”

“Had the same nightmare, all of us. Woke us up screamin’ all at once. Somethin’ was on the boat, broke all our equipment. Ron got dragged off the boat, then the rest of us. Whatever it was, it drowned us. We woke up screamin’, 'bout pissed myself.”

The pale one is shaking. “It… it said somethin’, though. Remember?”

The one with the empty glass nods, eyes wide as he looks up at Robert. “ _ You’re fucked. _ ”

It’s Robert’s turn to go pale.

“Coast guard came and got us eventually, but that boat’s in no shape to make it home. Controls are all fucked, radio won’t turn on, and something broke the chain of the anchor. Pried the links open, like.”

“Dunno how we’re gonna get home. Might hafta rent a car and trailer. We took the boat up the coast to get here. Nothing weird til last night…”

One of them scoffs. Ron, maybe. “Didn’t even catch a damn crab. Not even a fish.”

“Bay’s cursed,” one of them mutters.

“Damn right…”

Ron shrugs. “Dunno if that’s your Dover Ghost, but whatever it was, I think it just made me give up crab fishin’.”

Robert just nods to them, finishes his whiskey, and leaves.

How had they had that experience when Robert and Joseph had been fine? He doesn’t remember any fog, let alone seeing another boat… But something about it doesn’t sit well with him, and the first thing he does when he gets home is get in his truck and drive up to the lookout armed with cameras and recorders.

He’s going to get to the bottom of this, if it kills him or not.


	5. Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm running out of relevant Tom Waits songs, fam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So holy fuck I forgot what day it was but never fear, I have now installed an alarm on my phone that will ring at midnight every Friday so I'll never forget again! Yeesh, I'm so sorry!! Double sorry because this chapter is a little short, but next chapter is a whopper, so I split them a little uneven.
> 
> Anyway, we see a very familiar face in this chapter and Robert is head-over-heels :3c
> 
> Check me out on [tumblr](https://degraded-psychotic.tumblr.com). I usually don't answer comments here, so if you have any questions, that's the place to ask it!
> 
> [The song for this chapter.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mxVo5mjK4eg)

Robert starts taking notes.

Originally, he had thought that maybe this Dover Ghost’s influence was only on full moons. Thanks to good old-fashioned calenders, he found out that Marilyn died on a full moon, and he remembers it being a full moon the night Joseph picked up the  _ fuck your God _ voice in the woods. The day Jazmin died, however, wasn’t a full moon. In fact, it had nearly been a new moon… and the night out on the yacht had been a full moon. Three out of four instances with it had been on the full moon, fair enough, but it wasn’t enough to specify exactly when it would be active.

He doesn’t make much of a schedule about his little hunts both because of this and because Robert Small cannot be trusted to keep a schedule. Some nights when he can’t sleep and he’s sober enough, he hikes up to the woods at the lookout and sets up cameras and recorders and tries to make contact.  The only contact he gets for the next several weeks, however, is in the form of texts from Joseph.

Up until the actual day of, he’s inviting him over for Thanksgiving, then out Black Friday shopping. Robert gives a no to all, though does get a heaping plate of turkey leftovers that goes bad in his fridge by the time he’s getting texts asking if he’d like to come to Christmas Mass. He reiterates that he’s not a church or even a holiday person, and rather than wallowing in the grief about spending these holidays alone for the first time in, well,  _ ever _ , he’s too involved in his Dover Ghost hunts.

It’s freezing cold on Christmas Eve with a good two inches of snow already accumulated on roofs and roads. It's still coming down in a decent flurry as Robert hops the fence at the park and crunches his way up the snowy two-track. It would be so easy for a state trooper or the like to track him down and deliver the ticket he probably deserves, but he doesn't particularly care. He's in his leather jacket layered over his sweater layered over a t-shirt with his backpack of gear warming his back, and honestly he doesn't know how else he would be spending Christmas eve.

Valerie had texted him her address a few days ago, specifically instructing him to only use it to pack up Marilyn’s clothes to send her. But he wants to send her a card, a present, but it was Marilyn that always bought those kind of things. He's not sure what to do about it. What does Valerie like, anyway? He has no idea.

So that's why he's here.

Hunting is becoming a crutch for him, just as much as alcohol and drugs. He still drinks, still smokes, but instead of spending his nights blissed out and high while he stares at the ceiling, he spends them scouring the internet and reviewing footage and recordings. It's with an almost madness that he's pursuing this, and he knows it is, but he can't stop.

After all, he's tracking down his wife's killer.

He makes it up to the lookout and takes a minute to admire how he isn't quite as out of breath as he was the first time he made this hike. The bay is darker, only a handful of boats rocking in the winter waves, but the brilliance of neighborhood Christmas lights make up the difference. It's a beautiful view in its own right; one that tempts him just to look out and think. But he's already decided that thinking only makes him feel worse, so he sets his backpack on the guard rail to dig out his equipment.

He has a headlamp for light, leaving his hands to hold an audio recorder and his Polaroid camera. The strap of it hangs around his neck as he clips a night vision game camera to a nearby PLEASE PICK UP AFTER YOUR DOG sign, aiming it towards the woods as he puts on his backpack and heads into the trees.

It's a bit unnerving how quiet the forest is in the winter. Silent save for the crunch of his own footsteps and the occasional hoot of an owl. It makes it easier to review the audio files, sure, but it makes Robert more jumpy than he'd like to admit. 

He uses his own voice to fill the silence every few minutes, asking open questions for the demon or ghost or  _ whatever  _ it is to answer. Asking for its identity, if it's even in the woods, what it's doing… He reviews the recorder every so often, but nothing is there except for his own voice.

He snaps a handful of pictures, though when he looks at them after they've developed, there's nothing there but snow and trees. He does find a pair of eyes in one, but deeper inspection reveals a deer standing stock still and staring back at him with her ears pricked up and snow on her head.

He's been out here so long that his nose is running and his fingers feel numb, but just before he turns around to retrace his footsteps, there's a tremendous flash of light and a click that sounds like a gunshot in the quiet.  He spins around, beam crossing over something that shines. He snaps out a shaky “Who's there?” before he steps closer, breath leaving him in a relieved chuckle.

It's just a game camera. It's a bit more high tech than his, though if it has a flash that bright, he doubts it's night vision. Just a slim black box secured to a tree with bungee cords, a healthy dusting of snow on top. He hesitates before leaving it, however, wondering if he could get the pictures out. There's a lock on it where the compartment opens for batteries and a USB stick, just a padlock, and he's willing to bet he could pick it open with enough patience and willpower.

The flash goes off again as he shifts to take off his backpack, blinding him in the process. He curses, rubbing his eyes and moving out of the way as he digs numb fingers through his bag to find his own key. That doesn't cut it, so he pulls out his Swiss army knife from his jacket to get to work. The fact that the lock is frozen is just another problem, but holding his lighter under it for long enough thaws it enough for him to ram in a thinner blade and jiggle it around. His fingers are starting to ache too, and he gets out a good dozen swear words before the damn lock clicks open.

“Have something good for me…”

He pries open the panel to expose three thumb drives in their slots, numb fingers yanking them all free and dropping them into his bag. With that many, this camera must be set out for a while, and hopefully there's good stuff in there. Even if not, he can start using this for his own pictures.

Merry Christmas to him.

He zips up his bag after pulling the battery loose just to keep it from flashing more, slinging his backpack on and heading back the way his footprints came from.

He retrieves his own camera more carefully, arranging everything back into his bag. He's shivering at this point, and he's not stupid enough to stay out here any longer. He shoves his hands into his jacket for warmth as he practically jogs back to his truck, ignoring the fact that jumping the fence this time just resulted in him slipping on the icy metal and face planting in the snow on the other side.  Now so cold he doesn't even know if he can feel his face anymore, he starts the truck and immediately cranks the heat to high. His headlights beam out into the woods, cutting through falling motes of snow and the trees to reflect back in a pair of green eyes.

Green eyes?

He freezes, staring at the thing staring right back at him. The eyes are reflective like any other animal, but they're too high up to be a deer and too far apart to be an owl or squirrel.

The Tom Waits CD that's playing in his truck suddenly skips, creating a hiccup in that deep voice that glitches unnaturally before it stops completely. His headlights flicker as if they've shorted out and when they return to full brightness, the eyes are gone. Tom Waits continues as if he had never been interrupted in the first place.

He floors it all the way home, icy roads be damned.

He has a tingle of feeling back in his fingers by the time he gets home, dropping his backpack at the foot of the stairs as he makes a beeline for the coffee pot. He still has a tremble in his bones not from the cold, but from staring back at those eyes in the dark. 

He grabs the biggest glass he can find and pours himself some Jack instead.

A few minutes sees him at his desk with his computer buzzing as he downloads the combined contents of the game cameras, every USB port in his computer full. He drinks as he sorts through his Polaroids with a closer eye. There's still nothing, not even in the image of the doe staring him down, and that only makes him feel more uneasy.

It was  _ right there. _ How could he not have captured it? Why didn't he grab his camera instead of driving away?

The computer quiets as the files finish downloading, and Robert pulls out a small bottle of rum from his drawer to make his drink all the stronger before he looks.

He checks his camera first. The first two pictures are of him setting it up and walking into the woods, nothing too odd. The next is of a group of three does, probably the same he snapped a picture of, and the fourth is of himself stepping back through the foliage. Nothing odd. A little disappointing, actually.

The other pictures are what he braces himself for.

The dates are in the bottom corner in yellow font, the earliest date being a few days ago on the twenty-first. The first handful are daytime images of deer, a rabbit, a fox only minutes after the rabbit had scurried away. Birds had stopped to inspect the device, pecking at buried acorns beneath the snow, et cetera. Nothing special. The same three deer at night, an owl, the rabbit again… and then he gets to the recent ones.  There is nothing in the picture.

He frowns, takes another sip, and clicks around to zoom in. He can see an awkwardness in the shadows in the distance, though looking closer, it's the light from his own headlamp. That only confuses him more; with how bright the flash was, why hasn't he seen that? He looks for any signs of animals that may have sprinted past too quickly, but there doesn't seem to be a single disruption in the snow that wasn't there in the previous picture. In fact, the snow has nearly covered it all up in the six hours since. There isn't anything climbing nearby trees, and the only thing he can think of is that a bird had flown by. 

He prints the picture anyway; he'll look over it closer another time.

He clicks through the next picture on the slideshow, expecting to see himself getting caught in the flash, but it isn't of him. In fact, the entire image is black, as if something was covering the lens. There's no sign of his headlamp to argue that the flash just didn't trigger, and even without it, there was a sliver of moonlight out…

He prints that one too. His photo printer beeps with low black ink.

He compares the time stamps on the two of them, finding that the second is only one minute after the first. He clicks through the next images to see himself one minute apart, meaning that the camera must have a one minute delay between shots. 

Two odd pictures sat aside, Robert makes sure all of the files are saved before he swaps to the audio files, speakers at full volume.

There's nothing.

His own voice comes back at him and the regular crunch of snow. He hears the shuffling when he found the camera and picked the lock, the steps back the way he came. He had it running for the entire hike back down to his truck, when he fell over the fence. It's a little embarrassing to hear himself cussing out the snow.

But then there's something.

It's a horrible sound, and he has no idea why he didn't hear it at the moment. It sounds like metal scraping metal. Like a fork being dragged over a tin plate. He reaches to turn the volume down because of the way it drills into his skull, but he hears himself get into the car and the noise abruptly stops.

The recording ends despite the fact that he hadn't been the one to turn it off.

He remembers the voice Joseph caught. The voice he heard in his dream. What the fisherman had said. This thing doesn't  _ scream _ , it talks. None of the reports online had mentioned any noise at all. A noise so incredibly loud on a recording, but deaf to the human ear.

He rewinds it, plays it again. It's not a malfunction; he can still hear himself moving below the screeching. Even so, he holds it with a grain of salt. The thing was right in front of him, possibly even in the woods with him. It's an intelligent thing, so why would it scream instead of answering the questions he had posed earlier, or even make another vague threat?

He grabs his phone to text Joseph about it, but pauses with his thumbs over the keyboard. It's Christmas eve, and he's willing to bet that he's busy with all the youth minister Christian stuff. Not really the time to be talking about demons in the woods.

He closes down his computer and finishes his drink, leaning back in the plush rolling chair and inhaling the stale smell of smoke that's sunk into the faux leather. He needs a cigarette. After patting down his pockets, he finds a pack and his lighter. He lights up, looking at the photos for a moment before he finds himself on his feet and opening the sliding door that leads out to the balcony.

The snow has stopped by now, but the chill hasn't gone away and clouds still obscure the moon and stars. It's quiet, perfectly still, as he blows smoke into the air that mixes with the fog of his breath. The chairs are drifted with snow, and he frowns when he notices that the urn has a fair pile of powder on it as well.

He pinches his cigarette between his lips as he pulls his sweater sleeves over his hands, pushing the snow off of the smooth ceramic. He debates bringing it inside, though when he tries to lift it, it's stuck to the metal of the table with ice.

“Alright, Marilyn, you can stay there. You like lookin’ at the snow?”

He crushes his cigarette into the half buried ash tray, quietly noting that this is the first time he's talked to her since that trip on the yacht.

“He's a good guy,” he defends, looking back over the backyard so he doesn't have to look at the urn. “Not the most saintly of priests, but whatever. You know how thirsty church people are.” He smiles and it tastes bitter. “You know how thirsty I am.”

He pulls out another cigarette, chaining two more before sleep weighs at his eyelids and his shaking has stopped. He takes a breath as his fingers touch the icy porcelain, his smile softer this time.

“I'll get whatever that thing was, Lyn. Promise. “

He steps back, sliding the door open again. 

“Merry Christmas, babe.”

He wishes that she would say the same thing back.

Christmas day is nothing exciting. He wakes around noon to a merry Christmas text from Joseph with an invite to a ham dinner, but he ignores it. Instead, he opens up the text thread with Valerie. There's nothing there since her address, so he types one up.

_ merry christmas _

He sends it, though after a moment, makes an amendment to it.

_ i love you, val _

He doesn’t expect an answer, and he doesn’t get one anyway. It still stings a bit, the realization hitting him like a hammer to the ribs. It’s Christmas Day and he’s alone for the first time . He’s desperate enough to hear another human being’s voice to call his father, but considering he hasn’t talked to him in close to twenty years, he doubts that’s a good idea. His pop’s a distant guy, especially after finding out his son was a “drunken, raging slut” and he’s got years to apologize and make up for before the old man kicks the bucket. But two antisocial men trying to talk about feelings cannot possibly go well. The only thing he ever got from that man was a leather jacket and an armload of mental health problems.

It’s a little scary how much like his father he’s become.

He spends the day relapsing. He doesn’t know how else he would have spent it. He blows through his last order from Vince and watches TV with a bottle of red to celebrate the holiday. He has to shut off his phone and throw it blindly into the mess on his bedroom floor so he doesn’t try texting or calling Valerie or anyone else he would regret. He talks to an icy urn and pretends he’s not as alone as he feels.

He’s not sure when he falls asleep, exactly, but he wakes up to a dark living room with only the light of the TV and a rerun of Haunting Mountain Men. Two men are in a tent and huddled in winter apparel as they speak through radio static to try to communicate with the ghost of a dead hiker. Aside from the obvious hokiness of it, something about it catches his attention and sparks an idea in his hungover head.

He needs to camp in the woods.

He knows that the Dover Ghost, or whatever it is, is real. Without a doubt, it lives in those woods. What he wants -  _ needs _ \- now is to get his answers. What does it want? Why did it kill Marilyn and Jazmin, if it really did? Was it haunting the fishermen? There are so many glaring unknowns, so many things unanswered, and there’s only one way to solve it. He needs to spend a day and a night in there, maybe more, to try to track it down. Occasional hikes and game cameras aren’t cutting it. He needs more. There’s just one problem.

He doesn’t have a tent.

It’s four in the morning by the time he gets himself off the couch and in front of his computer, booting the old thing up to browse the miracles of online shopping. Even on discount sites, tents seem to be expensive, and when he places an order for the cheapest one he finds, he gets an unpleasant pop-up.

CARD DECLINED

Cursing under his breath, he digs through his wallet to try any of the other three credit cards he has. He gets the same pop-up, the same monotonous  _ dun _ when it appears on screen. He tries his debit, his PayPal, yet everything gets the same result.

So he does what every adult does in these moments; logs into his online bank account while peeking between his fingers and holding his breath.

He has eight dollars and thirty-seven cents to his name.

Well, it’s enough for a pack of cigarettes.

But, the sad state of his bank account does explain the bills he’s been getting that are marked URGENT, that have just started to accumulate in a messy stack on his kitchen table. Probably why he’s been getting calls from unknown numbers that he always ignores. Probably why there’s red font next to all of his accounts except for the paltry amount in his savings. How has he blown through his entire savings? Sure, he halved it when they bought the house, then there was the funeral, the cremation, the urn, the drugs, the booze…

He pours himself a drink and goes to bed, like any responsible adult would.

Robert tries his best to ignore it for the next few days, rotting his brain with TV and drinking to forget about the situation he’s in… until he runs out of booze and realizes he doesn’t have the money to buy more. And that’s probably the motivation that gets him onto job sites and polishing up his resume to apply. He applies to the same company he got fired from, and other than that, there really aren’t many jobs in Maple Bay that he would be qualified for. It makes him feel hopeless and depressed and he needs a drink, but then he remembers he doesn’t have any alcohol in the house and he gets even more hopeless and depressed. It’s a vicious cycle, really, so he opts just to sleep for most of his time.

But when being in the house is too much, he hops in his truck and drives back up to the woods. This time, in broad daylight.

The entire place has a different feeling when the sun is up. It feels cheery, almost. The snow has stopped, but it has already covered up his tracks from last time as he hops out of the truck with his backpack and jumps the fence. The faded painting of Smokey the Bear seems to warmly welcome him this time, instead of the disapproval he gets for sneaking in in the middle of the night. He grabs another camping map to tuck into his pocket now that he has camping on the brain, saluting Smokey before he heads up the path to the outlook.

The view from here isn’t as nice as it is at night, in Robert’s opinion. At night, the lights glint off the harbor and give the town a surreal, deep feeling, as if he’s looking at more than what he can see. Something bigger. Yet during the day, basking under the gray winter sun, it’s just a town. Nothing special.

He takes out his recorder to run it just in case as he hikes into the woods, using landmarks like fallen trees or rocks to remember the way. There’s more noise during the day; he can hear squirrels scurrying around for their food, birds chirping and nestling in the branches, the rush of snow and brush when his own crunching footsteps startle a rabbit. It’s peaceful, and he breathes the fresh air deeply, clearing out the musk of his house as he takes a moment just to let himself go to the peace.

Peace is not the same as happiness, but he appreciates it all the same. He has accepted that he may never find happiness again, and he’s okay with that. He may never be happy, but he can be  _ better _ . He can give up the booze, the drugs, the shitty attitude… He can be the father to Valerie that he never was, that he never had, and maybe he can make her happy. Maybe one day he can take her out camping here in the summer and they can tell ghost stories and be together again. Maybe one day he can take her to visit her grandfather for the first time. Maybe he could actually sit down and have a nice family dinner with her and her girlfriend sometime.

But all of that is so far away, it seems unattainable. He has a lot of work to do on himself. He probably needs a lot of therapy, a lot of AA meetings, a lot of support… None of which he has now. But he can work on it. He has to.

He’s halfway through a sarcastic thought about how deep these woods make him think and the obnoxious self-reflection of it all when he hears a dull click, turning to look at two back boxes attached to a tree. One of them still has the battery hanging out, but now has a note on it, and the other is very active and just caught a picture of him.

Great.

Grumbling under his breath, he takes off his backpack to retrieve the USB drives that he intended to return in the first place. He kneels down in the snow to read the note, the paper a bit damp and the ink running from the snow. Looks like deleting the pictures of himself was pretty useless.

_ These cameras are private property. Picking the lock and stealing the contents inside is illegal and punishable by law. Good luck breaking into the second one to get your mugshot. _

_       -S. Graves _

He rolls his eyes at it, glancing up at the second camera. Sure enough, this one is welded shut. No getting that out, though how S. Graves intends to open it, he has no idea. Whatever.

He puts the USBs back where he got them, not bothering with the battery or the cover. He digs through his backpack for something to write with, finding a permanent marker and deciding that’s good enough. Pressing the paper to the cold camera, he write his reply.

_ trespassing in here is illegal too, so we’d both get in trouble. asshole. _

_            -fuck off _

It’s harsher than it needs to be, sure, but whatever. It’s not like he’s going to make a habit out of stealing this guy’s pictures. And even if he can recognize who he is by his picture, he doubts this guy wants to get caught trespassing as much as he does. 

He’s making the hike back when his phone rings, and he’s honestly surprised that he even gets signal in here. But as eager as he is to hear another human being’s voice, he picks it up a bit too quickly for his usual self.

“Yeah?”

Joseph’s voice comes through the receiver, bright and peppy. “Good morning! You’re coming to Brian’s party tomorrow, right?”

He hasn’t really heard much from Joseph aside from holiday wishes and invites, pretty much cementing his suspicion that the yacht thing was a one-time deal. Probably best if the neighborhood doesn’t know the youth minister likes sucking dick anyway. “Uh…”

“I texted you about it! He’s having a New Year’s party, and the whole cul-de-sac is going to be there. We can walk over together if you’d like.”

A party doesn’t sound that great to him, but there’s two things it’s going to have that he wants a taste of; booze, of course, and Joseph. 

“When?”

“Around nine? I’ll have to put Chris to bed first.”

Sometimes he forgets Joseph’s a single dad, and if he thinks about it, that just makes their yacht trip even weirder. Who had been watching that kid? And isn’t divorce a sin in the Bible? 

“Yeah, alright.”

“I’ll see you then!”

He picks up on the fact that Joseph is about to hang up, so he cuts across, “Joseph, do you have a tent?”

There’s a pause, and he wonders if Joseph really did hang up, but he’s there. “Um, no. Why do you ask?”

“I need to spend a night in the woods.”

Another pause. “In the middle of winter?”

“Well, yeah,” he defends, stopping in his tracks as he speaks. “I went out Christmas Eve and got some weird shit. I  _ saw _ it. It’s out here, and hikes aren’t cutting it. I need to spend an entire night out here. I need answers.”

“That’s dangerous, Robert… It’s too cold.”

“I can handle it. Blankets are a thing. Do you know anyone with a tent?”

“Brian might… He’s pretty outdoorsy. You can ask him tomorrow.”

“Alright. You busy today?”

“Ah, a bit.”

He frowns and starts walking again. “Come over early tomorrow then. I gotta show you what I got.”

When he gets home, he organizes the files on his computer to show Joseph and spends a good hour staring at the printed pictures he found Christmas Eve. There’s still nothing he can see in the lighter picture that could have triggered it, but he finally notices something in the black ink of the second picture.

Two dots of green-grey among the dark the same distance apart that eyes would be.

They’re small, so whatever it is, it’s far away. He pulls it up on the computer just to make sure it’s not a printing error and he sees the same thing. If the flash had malfunctioned, those eyes would have been invisible or had reflections if it worked. But they’re there, and he gets shivers down his back when he remembers the glowing green eyes that watched him in his truck.

He shows Joseph the next day, playing the audio for him as well. He goes white as a sheet in his ugly sweater and khakis, folding his hands in front of him as if he’s about to start praying.

“That’s… horrifying.”

Robert nods in agreement, leaning back in his computer chair. “Yup. It’s a fucking demon, Joseph.”

He groans weakly, running a hand over his face. “I know, I know… I need to talk to Father Harold about it. If it is dangerous, we have to get rid of it.”

“You’re gonna have a hell of a time exorcising a demon in the woods. Pun not intended.”

Joseph frowns, lowering his hand. “Why do you say that?”

He gives him a look. “Because that thing  _ came  _ from nature. Telling it to fuck off is like telling you to go to a different room of your house. You’re out of sight, sure, but you’re still in the house. Who’s to say that thing won’t just pop up in a different part of the woods?”

“I… I don’t know. I’ll have to talk to someone about it…”

“I need my answers first,” he corrects, shutting down his computer and getting up. Joseph finally brought his sweater back, washed and folded and smelling like Mountain Breeze, so he throws that on because it’s the best-smelling thing he has. “You can damn it back to hell when I’m done with it.”

He follows Robert downstairs, still a bit pale. “What do you need from it?”

He stops to grab his keys and phone to pocket them, giving Joseph the most serious face he can muster. “That thing killed Marilyn and Jazmin.”

Joseph’s brow furrows, and now he just looks annoyed. “That’s… Robert, no. Those were both accidents. They-”

“Did Mat tell you why she swerved?”

Joseph shakes his head.

“Something ran out in front of them. Mat didn’t see it, but said it was probably a dog. Does anyone in this cul-de-sac have a dog?”

“Brian just got a puppy for Daisy on Christmas…”

“Which was over a month after that.”

“Still…”

Robert swings the door open, ushering Joseph through before he shuts and locks it. “Still, that thing’s out there and running in front of cars. I know Marilyn wouldn’t swerve for shit. She hit a dog once because it’s better to hit something small than the alternative. Whatever she swerved from, it was big, and the police said there was no other traffic at the time of the accident.”

As they walk the salted road to the opposite side of the cul-de-sac, Robert can tell that he doesn’t believe him. Sure, he sounds crazy, but he knows Marilyn. Unless it was a person or a fucking moose, she wouldn’t have swerved. And if it had been a person, wouldn’t they have called the police? Besides, do moose even live in Massachusetts in the first place?

He drops the topic once they get to a large ranch-style house with Christmas lights in the eaves and the trees out front, stepping inside to a small party. Hugo and Richard are already there, and he spots Mat sitting on the couch with Damien and playing with a little Corgi puppy on his lap. It’s fucking adorable and Brian welcomes them with a booming greeting, but Robert’s already made a beeline for the couch.

“Holy fuck.” He sits down next to Mat and at the sign of a new person, the puppy wiggles out of his hands and onto Robert’s lap, licking at his hands as his entire butt wiggles with the force of his happiness. “This is the cutest goddamn loaf of bread I’ve ever seen.”

Mat laughs and honestly, it’s good to see. The brace on his wrist is swapped out for one of those spandex glove things and the bruises and cuts have all healed up and gone. There’s still a distinct sadness about him, but puppy love defends all men from the evil of grief.

“His name’s Maxwell.”

Robert looks up to see a woman smiling and holding a platter of cheese and crackers. She offers it to Damien and Mat, who each take a few, though pulls it out of range when Maxwell makes to get some.

“I’m Dianne,” she introduces warmly, offering the platter to Robert so he can snatch a cracker while Maxwell is distracted by the crumbs falling onto Damien’s puffy shirt. “Brian’s wife,” she supplements. “You’re Robert, right?”

“Yeah,” he confirms, glancing around for another tray. She gets his hint and giggles, the sound warm and full. 

“Champagne’s in the kitchen. There’s wine too, if you’d like. Make yourself at home!”

Robert doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s ready to get his drink on, to firmly establish the rumor that he’s the drunk hermit of the cul-de-sac, but Maxwell has made his way back onto his lap and he honestly can’t resist giving him his cracker and cheese. He’s wearing a little holiday neckerchief! How the fuck is he supposed to resist?

Dianne leaves to go greet more guests as the door opens and a gust of cold air comes in. Brian replaces her and turns the TV to the celebration in Times Square. That one old dude is hosting it; the dude no one really knows the name of and is literally only seen New Year’s Eve. He must be related to Punxsutawney Phil somehow. He’s not even that entertaining, yet millions of Americans tune in to watch him. He at least needs to get that mole removed.

“Dude! Robert!”

Robert is currently, and quite purposefully, holding Maxwell in such a way that the puppy cannot escape him. He’s simultaneously okay with it because he’s being pet, but also there’s new people he wants to greet, but Robert isn’t going to let him go. He needs some fur therapy, and he really needs it now because Vince is in a hoodie and grinning toothily at him.

“The hell’re you doin’ here?”

“You know him?” a man asks, coming up behind Vince with a wrapped cheeseball. Brian swoops in to take it to the kitchen after exchanging pleasantries.

“Met him at the Sound Garden,” Vince explains, still all crooked teeth. Kid needs braces. “Robert, this is my dad, Kevin. We live next door to Joseph!”

Well, that explains a lot. It explains why Vince is always quick to meet up with him, why he’s never seen whoever lives next door to Joseph. This Kevin guy looks like he’s about to work himself to death; pressed shirt and pants with a tie while everyone else looks like they’re in loungewear. Well, except Damien. But he always dresses like that.

Vince sits on the arm rest next to Robert as Kevin sinks into the recliner as if he’s deflated. He shuts his eyes, and Robert would bet his entire eight dollars and thirty-seven cents that he’ll be asleep by midnight.

“How was your Christmas, dude? Get anything cool?”

The  _ I don’t do small talk _ is on his tongue, but he can smell the pot on Vince and can tell by his eyes that he’s at least a  _ little _ high. So why not fuck with the kid? “An AK-47 and a ten pound hunk of coal.”

He hears mat almost choke on his cheese.

Vince blinks, face blank for a moment. “Wait, really?”

“Yup.”

“Robert!”

_ Ugh _ . Why can’t he just pet this dog in peace?

Brian has an odd look on his face, a beer in both hands. He offers one to Robert, who gives up keeping Maxwell trapped to grab it. The puppy climbs back over Mat and onto Damien, who immediately begins baby-talking to him. 

“Joseph said you wanted to go camping?”

He shrugs. He hadn’t intended on having this conversation with so many people around, but whatever. He cracks open his beer and the taste of a cold Michelob Ultra is almost as good as an orgasm. “Yeah. You got a tent I could borrow?”

“I got a few. If you’re looking to camp in the snow, though, I got a one-man that would work. Are you going hunting?”

“Somethin’ like that, yeah.”

Brian nods, both of them taking a moment to drink. Vince leaves to grab himself a drink, Kevin already too passed out to stop him. Or not caring. Whichever.

“I’ll have to get it out of the attic, but let me know when you’ll need it and I can have it ready.” He smiles, clinking his can to Robert’s in a mock toast. “That’s what neighbors are for, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks, Brian.”

There’s a commotion in the kitchen about Dianne trying to keep Vince out of the booze, and Brian frowns to go assist. Damien eventually gets up for a drink as well and gets pulled into a hushed discussion with Joseph by a gurgling, well-kept fish tank. This leaves Kevin snoring on the recliner and Mat and Robert playing with the puppy.

But then Joseph waves Mat over, and Robert finally gets what he wants.

A true introvert’s dream; a puppy at a party, all to himself.

He drinks, though he keeps in mind that he’s not at home and can’t get as shit-faced as he wants. He goes outside to have a cigarette a few minutes to midnight and ends up passing a blunt with Vince and missing the ball drop. Though, he does manage to impress the party guests by shrugging it off and confessing that he’s seen it in person, so it’s not as exciting on TV anyway. Brian gathers everyone for a round of poker, but at that point, Kevin’s totally out with Maxwell sleeping on his lap (lucky bastard didn’t even wake up to notice) and Robert’s itching for more drinks, more pot, more  _ something _ . He says goodbye, claiming he’s tired, to which Damien tells him that yes, he must be, because his eyes are so red! Vince slips him a baggy that he doesn’t bother looking at, promising to pay him later before he slips out into the night.

He knows he needs help when he leaves with a pack of stolen beer, but goddamn if he’ll ever get it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why yes, that familiar face was, in fact, Maxwell, and Robert loves him very much... So much that he's thinking about getting a dog of his own, hmmMMMMMMMM


	6. Just the Right Bullets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THERE IS ANIMAL DEATH IN THIS CHAPTER. If you want to skip it, skip the 2 paragraphs after broken branches until you see "Robert!". (You'll know what I mean)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :3c
> 
> Check my [tumblr](https://degraded-psychotic.tumblr.com) for updates.
> 
> [The song for this chapter.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ov7-Ujz1ecs&list=LLzazz1rOlwqNAiKAfQersrA&index=2)

Robert has gotten good at rationing his crutches. It’s not the most enjoyable thing, but he does it because he has no other choice. Scratch cards put thirty dollars in his wallet, and he’s clinging to that if an emergency arises.

Running out of booze is an emergency.

It’s oddly reminiscent of those days in Brooklyn when he would squeeze his hand into an old tomato soup can to fish out bills and change that were supposed to be for their savings accounts. For Valerie’s college. For a house. It brings the ghost of guilt with it, but he tells himself he doesn't care. 

He cares about a lot of things. He's just spent a lifetime building steel walls topped with barbed wire that he can hardly identify his own emotions anymore. Marilyn had been the only one to brave the climb inside, but even she didn't know everything. He still kept things from her, and now that she's gone, he feels a seed of regret sprouting somewhere within him.  So he drinks. He gets high. His emotions are easier to deal with when he doesn't deal with them at all.

He pulls up to Jim and Kim's in a gentle flurry, though the parking lot is all muddy, salted slush. He stamps it from his boots before he shoulders his way into the bar, finding it just about as busy as he expected for a Monday night. There's a few older barflies in their usual spot in the corner, but the bar where he grabs a stool is empty. 

“Long time no see,” Neil greets, already grabbing a glass for his whiskey. He pours him a generous amount, no ice, and it's welcomed happily into Roberts waiting hand.

He sips at it, knowing he's on a tight budget. “Yeah, ‘cause you've been closed for the past week.”

He shrugs, leaning against the counter. “Went down to Florida for the holidays. You know this place can't run without me.”

Totally not jealous of Neil's vacation, Robert asks in half seriousness, “You hiring?”

He glances out to the bar, at how empty it is. Now that he thinks about it, Robert has only seen one other bartender here, and that was on the weekends. Surely there's an open spot. 

“Sorry, Robert. Can't really afford to hire anyone else. Are you out of a job?”

His answer is half mumbled into his drink. “For about six months, yeah.”

Neil raises a brow before he pushes himself off the counter, grabbing a bag of peanuts from under the counter to refill the bowl. “You know there's an unemployment center in town, right?”

The blank look on his face is enough answer.

“It's right next to the DMV and that elementary school. I think they're open all week. You should check it out.”

He gives a thoughtful hum, tucking that nugget of information away for now. Going somewhere in person appeals better to him than sending applications online, no matter how old that makes him sound. Then again, he's not looking his best. He hasn't showered all week and his unshaven beard is almost wild looking at this point, but at least the hair hides the shallowness of his cheeks and the state of his unbrushed teeth a bit. He'll have to shower, shave, brush his teeth, and get a good meal in him before he goes. Then again, it's an unemployment office. Everyone there probably looks the same as he does; like a homeless drunk. And, well, he's halfway there. Another month and the bank will probably be on his ass. Shutting off water, power… the house was a forclosure when they bought it, and he hates to see it leave him the same way.

Neil picks up on this hesitation, cracking open a few peanuts to munch on. “If that's not your speed, the bulletin board just outside probably has some odd jobs on it. I bet some of the elderly need their driveways shoveled.”

Neil means well, he really does, and Robert appreciates it. But the conversation has gotten more personal than their chats ever have before, and it's making him a bit itchy. He doesn't like talking about himself, let alone his financial situation. He upends his glass, though shakes his head when Neil reaches for more.

“On a tight budget. Besides, if I'm gonna go get a job, I don't think it would be very smart to be hungover.”

Neil nods, munching on a few more nuts. Robert grabs a handful to tuck into his pocket, which makes the bartender raise a brow at him. It's food. Baby stesps.

“No problem, Robert. Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

He smokes and polishes his resume before getting a good, healthy, twelve hours of sleep. He showers, shaves down to the stubble because he can't stand the babyish take his face gets without  _ any _ shadow, brushes his teeth after having a Hot Pocket for breakfast, and he's out the door in his blue sweater and the only pair of slacks he owns.

The unemployment offices are tucked in a small building next to the DMV, and the place could be closed if it weren't for the neon OPEN sign in the window. There's only two cars in the lot as he pulls in, slush only having worsened overnight. He really needs to wash the truck, but there's not much of a point in it now.

He feels a bit anxious when he opens the door with sweaty palms, seeing a sign offering different places for him. He decides that registration is his best bet, and his boots squeak obnoxiously with dampness on the linoleum flooring. There's a folded copy of his resume that he pulls from his back pocket as he steps into the office with a cheery COME ON IN! sign. Still, he knocks on the open door before he walks in.

A pleasant looking woman with aged silver hair beams up at him, waving him in. She doesn't have a name tag or anything of the sort, but she does have a rather gaudy snowman pinned to the lapel of her pantsuit.

“Good afternoon! How can I help you?”

He sits in the chair opposite her desk, lamely offering up his scant resume to the desk. She takes it and puts on thick reading glasses, looking it over.

“Need a job.” There was something snarky and borderline rude on his tongue, but if he's honest, he just wants to get this over and done with. The quicker he's out of here, the quicker he has a job and some kind of income.

“Alright, I'll have you fill put a couple forms here for me while I put your resume in!” She hands him a clipboard with a thick stack of papers on it and a beaming smile on her face. “Can I see your drivers license?”

He wrestles his still-new Massachusetts license from his wallet to hand over to her, relaying his social security number to her when she asks. He leans back in the plush chair to fill put the forms on his knee as she types away, making a face when most of the questions repeat. Why do you want a job? Money. Why are you unemployed? Got fired. Are you on any unemployment or disability programs? No, he didn't even know those were an option.  There's a personality quiz that he completely lies on, then another quiz to see what kind of work he would be best suited for. He should probably be honest, but if he was, he wouldn't be getting  _ any  _ job.

He signs some privacy forms and other legal jargon that he doesn't really understand, and then he's done. He slides it to the woman, who a absolutely beams, but doesn't take it.

“Thank you! I've got all your information put in for now, so take that paperwork down the hall and to the left. Oh! And here's your license back!”

Now he remembers why he hates government offices. He just takes and releases a big breath before he stands. He takes himself and the clipboard down the hall and to the left to a large room with several cubicles. There's flipped signs that say CLOSED on most of them, but one near the entrance says OPEN, so he takes himself there. He raises his hand to knock so he doesn't scare whoever is there, but he drops his hand when he sees who it is.

“Mary?”

Quick mental math deems that she's probably just past the halfway mark of her pregnancy, but by the size of the bump she's idly rubbing as she leans back in her chair says different. Her sweater is stretched over it behind her desk, and she's put some weight in her cheeks too. She blinks at him before she gives a shit-eating grin, gesturing to the chair on the opposite side of her desk.

“Well, well. Look who the cat dragged in.”

“You're fucking huge” is the greeting that comes from his mouth.

Mary snatches the clipboard from him so she can smack him in the arm with it. He flinches becaude it actually  _ hurts _ , and Mary looks like shes about to hit him again when he puts his hands up in surrender.

“Sorry, sorry! I just wasn't expecting that! What are you, six months?”

“Six and a half,” she corrects. She’s still bristling, eyes still bitter and narrowed, but there are bags under them that hadn’t been there before. “And it’s twins.”

He leans back in the chair, giving her an honest smile, even though it’s small. “Congrats. Seriously, Mary, that’s awesome. It’s amazing enough that women carry human beings inside them for nine months, but two of them? That’s cool.”

She rolls her eyes, flipping through Robert’s paperwork. “Yeah, suck up to me while you can.” She’s about to say something else when she gets to the quiz portions, shooting him a look. “You know, if you lie on these, it’s totally useless to try to place you into a job.”

He shrugs. “I just need something that’ll give me money.”

“Don’t we all,” she mutters, turning in her chair to click around on her computer. She types in a few things, glances at the paperwork every now and again, and then a small printer on her desk comes to life with a lot of noise that it probably shouldn’t make. She turns the paper so Robert can see it, snatching a pen and going into full serious mode as she circles things for him. “Okay, so here’s the jobs in the area I think would be a good fit for you. This one here is a manufacturing job for a steel pipe business. Just bending pipes, pushing buttons, yada yada. This is for third shift stock work at the grocery store on Main; pretty self-explanatory. And this-” she circles this one twice and underlines it “-is a new job posting that came up this morning. You know Brian, right?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “He’s been working with his dad in a contracting business for years, but the old guy finally retired and took most of the staff and clients with him. Thing is, Brian wants to keep it going. He has the builders he needs, but he needs someone to manage schedules, payrolls, and projects. You’d be working from home, all on the computer. The only time you’d even need to have a shred of customer service is if one of the workers calls to bitch about his check. Brian handles all the clients and you just put them on a calendar.” She leans back with that done, resting a hand atop her belly. “I’d go for that one, personally, especially since you already know Brian. Though…” She gives him a look that he, unfortunately, immediately understands.

He holds his hands up, giving the best innocent smile he can manage. “Don’t worry. He doesn’t know me  _ that _ well.”

She hums, chewing on the end of her pen. Something still looks wrong, and the way she’s looking at him makes him feel like he’s about to get scolded. But she seems to be done, so he folds up the paper to tuck away as he stands.

“Thanks, Mary. I’ll text you. It’s been too long.”

She shrugs, brown eyes like daggers tearing through him. “I can’t drink for the time being, so you lost interest in a broad like me. Don’t worry about it.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but she waves him away and turns back to a magazine she had hidden under her keyboard. He takes that as his cue, ducking out of the cubicle and out of the stout little building with something like a plan in his head.

The truck starts on the second try and he belts along to Tom Waits on his drive home. He considers swinging into a sub shop for lunch, but remembers his money issue and forgets about it. When he gets home, he stays in his clothes and for the first time in years, he cleans out of his own volition.

He feels good.

He finally feels like he’s doing something with his life. He’s finally starting to move forward instead of treading water and trying not to drown. Sure, he doesn’t have a job yet, but he has leads. He took care of his personal hygiene and even ate something today. He hasn’t had a single drink or cigarette since last night! It’s no sober streak, no winning lotto ticket, but it still makes him feel a bit lighter. He remembers what Valerie said, what she meant by it, and that only steels his resolve. He needs to get better for her. He needs to have her in his life again. He can’t let everything slip through his fingers this time.

Brian’s phone number is on the paper that Mary gave him, along with the job description and the official address for the business. He spends some time anxiously pacing (he has room on the floor to do that now!) before he dials it, standing in the light of his front window as the dial tone turns to ringing. He spots Carmensita outside, hurling snowballs at Mat as he tries to seek shelter behind a drift that the snowplows built. It’s sickly heartwarming.

“Harding Contracting, this is Brian.”

“Hey, it’s Robert.” Ugh, what is he supposed to say? He should have written this out, or at least practiced in front of his mirror. He’s never done over-the-phone job hunting or interviews. Always in person or, more recently, online.

There’s a beat, but Brian recognizes the name. “Robert! Why are you calling my work line?”

He looks down at the paper clenched in his hand, trying his hardest not to sound as desperate as he really is. “I heard you were hiring and figured I’d give it a shot.”

“The secretary position?”

It sounds a lot worse when it’s called a  _ secretary _ job. “Yeah, whatever you wanna call it. I think I could manage something like that.”

“You know your way with computers?”

“Well enough.”

There’s a laugh, deep and pure like his wife’s. “Good enough for me! Do you have any relevant experience?”

Shit. “Uh… no. Worked in a factory.”

A hum. “Degree?”

He winces. High school dropout that never went to college and got his GED three years ago. Not exactly a good reputation… which is why he could only ever get factory positions. You don’t have to be booksmart to work on an assembly line and do the same damn thing for ten hours a day. “No, but I got my GED.”

He can almost feel Brian hesitating, and he’s ready to hang up and call one of the other jobs, but he finally breaks the silence.

“Tell you what; come over sometime this week and I’ll give you a little interview. Nothing fancy, of course. I want to make sure this is the kind of job you’d be interested in.”

“Yeah, sure.”  _ Fuck yeah _ .

“Oh! One more thing before I let you go.”

“Yeah?”

“When did you want that tent?”

He chews on his lip, unsure. He hasn’t looked at the weather or made anymore plans for it. In fact, he had nearly forgotten about it. The sooner he can get up there, the better. “I’ll let you know.”

“Will do! Just give me a couple days’ notice so I can get it from the attic.”

Brian gives him his personal number and Robert doesn’t bother calling the other jobs. Instead, he and Brian text back and forth to figure out a day and time that would work (mostly working around Brian’s hectic schedule in getting ready for spring) and Thursday afternoon sees him on Brian’s porch, pressing a cold finger to the doorbell. Why the hell did he  _ walk _ here?

There’s shrill yapping on the other side of the door, though, and that gets him to smile. How could he forget about little Maxwell? God, this job will be completely worth it if he gets to see that puppy on a regular basis.

Brian opens the door with Maxwell under one arm, and as soon as he sees a familiar face, he’s thrashing so much that Robert has to slip inside and shut the door before Brian drops him and he starts jumping around Robert’s feet. He can’t resist giving the guy a scratch and letting him bite and lick his hand and arm, pulling on the sleeve of his sweater before he sprints into the other room. 

“Fuck, he’s adorable.”

Brian laughs, ushering Robert into the kitchen. “He’s a spunky little guy. Fits right in.” There’s a pitcher of cider on the counter that he fetches, and it’s steaming with heat. “Hot cider?”

It’s not alcohol, but it’s just as good. “Please.”

Brian pours them each a glass before they take a seat at the table, where a few sheets of paper have been laid out. He immediately leads them straight to business, showing Robert what to expect and telling him more about the job and how it should be done. It sounds easy enough, and Brian admits that he could do it himself, but with a toddler and now a puppy, things are getting a bit too busy for him to stay focused solely on work. Robert nods like he understands, but in all truth, he spent Valerie’s childhood working and sleeping and drinking and doing other morally questionable things. But Brian doesn’t need to know that. Brian doesn’t need to know anything other than the fact that Robert needs a job.

Their little interview ends on a good note, with Brian promising to let him know his decision in a week or so and the two of them deciding that Robert will borrow the tent on Monday and be back by Wednesday night. Now that he has a date for it, he feels all kinds of anxious, and he’s up all night Sunday packing his gear and double-checking that he has everything.

Brian had offered him things like sleeping bags and campfire supplies, but he had declined. Sure, he has none of that, but he does have a portable generator and a space heater. He packs blankets to make a sleeping bag of his own, and like any good camper, he stuffs a case of beer two packs of cigarettes in the truck for the trip. He’s throwing some food in his truck at five in the morning on Monday when Joseph comes out to roll his trash can to the curb. He looks at Robert a bit bewildered, leaving the can at the end of his driveway to walk over the snow to talk to him.

“What are you doing?”

Robert shuts the door and leans against it, gesturing to the tent in the bed of the truck. “Camping out in the woods.”

He blinks, but when it’s clear he isn’t joking, Joseph sighs. “Robert, you can’t go up there by yourself… It’s freezing outside. Have you even camped in a tent before?”

“Nope.”

Hands clasp in front of him. Here they go. “I can’t let you do something so dangerous by yourself. Let me come with you. Just give me twenty minutes to pack.”

He frowns. He wants to say no, that this is  _ his _ adventure. That this is his suicide vacation. But Joseph is the only other person that seems to believe in the Dover Ghost, and he’s the one that started the hunt for such an elusive being in the first place. It feels like he  _ has _ to let him come along. Then again, it would be helpful. Another pair of hands means that more gear can be carried and run at the same time, and he could have some help pitching the tent. The one-man tent. Whatever, it’s not like they haven’t literally laid on each other before. “Yeah, yeah. Sure. What about the kid? I’m going for two nights.” Sometimes he forgets that Joseph is a father. It’s still weird to him, that a youth minister is a single father. Then again, it’s still weird to him eighteen years later that he’s a father too.

Joseph waves his hands, already halfway to the house. “He’s sleeping now. Mary can watch him.”

Mary doesn’t seem like the best choice in babysitters, honestly. And considering the time, she’s not going to be happy about the last-minute notice. Then again, maybe babysitting Joseph’s little brat is a way to fine-tune her maternal instinct. She is, after all, going to be having  _ twins _ . She’s going to need all the experience she can get.

Nonetheless, he hops in his truck and makes room in the passenger seat for Joseph. He starts it up to get the heat going and turns the music low, fishing his phone from his pocket to text Mary.

[sorry in advance]

It’s kind of his fault for the last-minute babysitting she’s going to be doing, but with a house that big and a yacht to match, he’s sure she’ll get paid well. How Joseph even makes all of that money to upkeep it all, he’s not sure. Joseph mentioned to him before that the boat was inheritance from his father, but there’s still an enormous house to explain. Then again, if a yacht was in the will, he would bet there was a hefty bank account too. And having a rich friend… 

No. No, Robert refuses to take handouts. The pity package from the church is still fresh in his mind, and he’s not going to take something like that. He knows he probably needs it, sure, but taking handouts makes him feel…  _ gross _ . Slimy. He knows he’s not worth it.

His phone buzzes in his hand as Joseph comes out of his house with a hastily packed suitcase, and there’s a wrinkle in his brow before he smoothes it out before Robert can see it too much. He ignores it and looks down at his phone, seeing a message from Mary.

[oh no it’s totally fine. go hang out with your bff joseph.]

It’s cold and snarky, he knows, but he doesn’t defend it with a response. Yeah, so what if Joseph is his new friend? Honestly, he needs one. Mary’s a good person, really, but without the both of them getting drunk, he finds himself unsure of how to start a conversation with her. With Joseph, it’s hard to beat around his small talk, but at least they have the Dover Ghost or other actions to fall back onto. Sex is better than conversation anyway.

“Sorry I took a minute,” Joseph excuses, breathless with his rush. He stuffs his suitcase in the back with Robert’s before he settles in the passenger seat, and Robert is backing out of the driveway as he’s buckling up. “So the campground opens this early in the year?”

“No.” He can almost feel Joseph’s hesitation in camping in a place that’s off-limits for the season, but he doesn’t care. “Look, I’m not gonna wait til summer to get this thing. It’s active now, so I wanna get it now.”

“What do you mean ‘get it’?”

He rolls his eyes, pulling out of the cul-de-sac and onto the main road, engine whining in protest at not being warmed up yet. “I already told you that I have questions for it. And don’t you start objecting this trip; you’re the one that just invited himself along. I hear any bitching and your ass is getting ditched in a snow drift to dig up come spring.”

That shuts him up.

They crawl along icy roads up to the park, and when they're stopped by the gate, Joseph heaves a breath.

“So how far are we carrying this stuff?”

Robert puts the truck in park and slips out without an answerthat's more than a finger to tell him to wait. 

During his little tumble over this gate, he now knows that it's locked by no more than a chain and a padlock. A padlock so old that he's willing to bet picking it wouldn't even work. The thing is probably rusted too badly to open for anything bit the key. But he came prepared, and the look on Joseph's face makes himgrin like a madman as he pulls a pair of bolt cutters from the bed of the truck. Brand new, bought with the thirty-odd dollars from scratch cards, just for this occasion. He honestly has no idea what else he would ever use them for, so maybe he can return them after this.

His testosterone high at the excitement of destroying something fades, however, when the chain won't break as easily as he thought.

Joseph gets out, boots crunching through the snow. “Robert, if you cut that, it's destruction of public property!”

He rollshis eyes, shifting the cutters. “Relax, Miss Goody.” Though, he has a point. Robert hadn't actually thought that far ahead. But like hell he's going to lug all his shit up and down the hill. He should have brought a sled. Or at least a second collapsible wagon. “I'll just knot the chain back up when we leave. No one will notice.”

“Except the rangers when they open it.”

He groans, dropping the cutters to the snow and throwing his hands in the air. If he's honest, he can't afford a ticket and S. Graves already has his mugshot. “Then you get us in.”

Joseph looks along the fence that holds the gate, watching it disappear down the road one way and end at the corner off the highway in the other. If it weren’t for the trees, they could just go around, but even then Robert isn’t sure his truck would be up for it. Closer investigation, however, leads to a success. Joseph grins, crossing over to the hinge of one of the gates.

“Hand me the cutters?”

Robert huffs, but does so. “I thought you said this is  _ destruction of public property _ .”

“Calm down, Miss Goody,” he shoots back, gesturing to the bolts on the hinge. “These are loose. We can knock them out, open the gate from the other hinge, then slide the bolts back in once we get through. No damage.”

Robert pouts childishly as Joseph gets to work. “You take the fun out of everything.”

“I’m a man of the cloth, Robert. It’s what I do.”

Well, at least he’s aware of it.

The plan works, though it’s a bit more sweat than Robert likes to admit. The truck  _ just _ fits on the two-track, bumping along at a steady five miles an hour as they climb the hill. Luckily he wrapped chains around his tires, or else they’d be sliding backwards at this point. Slow progess is better than none.

“Have you ever been camping?” Joseph asks after a moment of Robert pumping the gas to get over a fallen branch.

“Of course,” he lies smoothly. “I used to be in the service. Pitched tents in the dark, in the desert, in snow worse than this. Even carried a wounded brother-in-arms back to basecamp when he stepped on a bear trap.”

Joseph looks impressed, a hand reaching to cover where his tattoo is. “Really? I was in the Navy for two years. I… I didn’t really do much, though. What division were you in? Marines?”

Well, now he feels like shit. Joseph’s a fucking veteran. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

His eyes widen. “What? Were you special ops? Were--” He blinks and Robert can hear the gears finally clicking. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”

He shrugs, maneuvering the truck to the edge of the woods by the outlook. “Maybe.”

“That’s a bit extreme, to pretend you were in the army…”

“You’re the one that wanted to come,” he shoots back, giving him a look before he shuts off the truck and hops out.

The flat plateau of the outlook would be prime tent-pitching property, but it’s a bit  _ too _ much in the elements. With the cold wind, they’d be liable to fly away or freeze to death. Besides, Robert points out, they’ve never had any proof that the Dover Ghost comes out to the outlook. It seems to be more active in the woods, where it can hide, or darting across roads. The latter, of course, Joseph is still skeptical on.

They manage to load up all of their gear in one slow, heavy trip, but they find a small clearing just big enough for the tent after a few grueling minutes. Well, grueling for Robert. Joseph carried about double what he did.

“It’s safe to assume you’ve never pitched a tent?” Joseph ventures, crouching in the snow to open the bag that contains tarp, poles, sticks, and more poles. Why isn’t there an instruction manual?

“Fuck no,” he deadpans, breathing hard as he drops the portable generator and a wagon he filled with fuel containers and food. He leans against a tree, nearly collapsing against it. Christ, he needs to get in shape.

Joseph frowns, looking through their supplies. “Did you bring a shovel?”

“Uh…” Didn’t think of that. Oops.

Joseph digs around for a while until he finds a small ax in the toolkit Robert had borrowed from Brian. The only piece of equipment aside from the tent that he was smart enough to ask for. He draws a square about the size of the tent and, gesturing for Robert to grab something, starts shoveling.

“We need to set it directly on the dirt. The ground’s probably frozen, too, so the stakes will be hard to put in.”

And so, with an ax and the lid of the toolkit, they clear an area and set to work. It’s a lot of guess work because Joseph doesn’t know how to pitch a tent either, but they use the picture on the side of the bag as a guide. It takes a few tries and Robert’s back is killing him when they finish, but it doesn’t fall over when Joseph shoves it, so it must be good. Though, it’s certainly a one man tent. There’s about enough room for Robert and the heater. No room for Joseph and his broad shoulders.

“Sorry. Looks like you sleep outside,” he simpers, grabbing blankets and crawling inside of the nylon tent to begin construction on his nest. 

Joseph leans down to peer into the small zipper doorway, an amused sort of expression on his face. “I did most of the work in constructing this.”

“Well I got the tent.”

“I told you where to get it.”

“This was my idea in the first place.”

“A stupid idea.”

“If it’s so stupid, why’d you come?”

“To make sure you don’t die. Again.”

Robert sends him a glare, though it’s weak and a bit deflated. Joseph  _ has _ saved his life… twice? Once from the ocean, and again when he was stroking out on his front lawn. If it weren’t for Joseph, he’d be dead. Something he still finds himself considering if it would be easier and better than the life he has now. Valerie wouldn’t be disappointed in him. She’d get a house out of the deal. No one else would ever miss him.

He turns away, tucking a comforter down as a carpet. “Yeah, well maybe you should stop getting in the way of my suicide plots.”

He can feel Joseph staring at him, feel the way the mocking, joking tone has completely crumbled. It’s still fresh, still something that haunts him on nights he can’t sleep. For a while after he had been released from the hospital, he would wake up in the middle of the night and think he was still there. Dying. Dead, sometimes, and waking in a coffin. He knows they aren’t healthy thoughts, but that’s what his crutches are for. Depression doesn’t just get healed; it stays, rotting in your ribcage and spreading to your extremities until you wear it on your skin like a blistering rash. He will always be depressed, and no amount of therapy or medication will fix that. It might help the symptoms, but if he stops therapy or stops medication, he’ll be right back where he started. So why do it? Why go to a doctor and get put on happy pills when alcohol and drugs fix it? Why not just let that kill him instead of a long, drawn-out life of psychiatrists and psychologists poking him and asking how things make him feel? Hell, he doesn’t even know what he feels most of the time. Therapy would be wasted on him.

“There’s enough room in there for both of us,” Joseph says after a moment, voice soft. It calls Robert out of his daze, and he pulls his hands away from where they were clutching at the blankets. “We’ll just have to put the heater down by our feet.”

Robert takes a breath, then grabs the next blanket and gets back to work. “Yeah, we can. Lucky for you, you don’t snore, or else I’d kick you out.”

He hears Joseph snort as he hands Robert the pillows. “Says the man who snores.”

Robert looks at him incredulously. “What?”

“Yeah. You snore. Loud, too. Like a chainsaw.”

His eyes narrow. Never in their eighteen years of marriage had Marilyn  _ ever _ told him that he snores. “You’re lying.”

He crosses himself. “May God strike me down if I lie.”

“Not buying it.”

“Then I’ll set up the recorders and give you proof,” he says simply, handing Robert the final blanket before he stands to set up the generator. “Now how does this work?”

It takes them until just shy of noon to set everything up. Robert attaches his game camera to a nearby tree, aiming it at their small campsite to see if anything comes by at night. Recorders, cameras, and sensors are mostly left in their bag, but Joseph pulls a recorder out with a little grin and a promise to prove to Robert that yes, he does snore and it’s awful. They break for lunch, which is mostly just jerky and peanuts because Robert wasn’t expecting a second person, but Joseph grins and unzips his luggage to show clothes smashed on the bottom underneath a few Tupperware containers of leftovers. Roast chicken and corn, taco salad, hot dogs and macaroni, and even ribs. They’ll dine like kings. Or at least, not starve.

The one man tent is a tight squeeze, but they do manage. And for the past hour, Robert has been lying on his stomach with his feet by his pillow and his hands out the door, eyes downcast in concentration as he whittles a small piece of wood that’s beginning to look like a bear. It’s an improvement from statues that vaguely look like Marilyn, at least. But Joseph isn’t keen on letting him enjoy the silence, sitting as backwards as he is with his arms folded under his head as he watches Robert work. Every attempt at his small talk has been shut down by Robert simply saying nothing, but as the carving gets more intricate and he keeps pausing to consider what to do next, he gets a bit more bold about it.

“I think I know what your problem is.”

Robert arches a brow, though doesn’t look at him, too busy carving little bear ears. “Yeah? And what’s that, genius?”

He shifts to prop himself up on his elbows, scooting a little closer to the door that’s becoming host to wood shavings. “You need someone to tell you what to do.”

That gets him to look, to pause his carving and give Joseph a look of pinched brow and bitter smile. “Oh really?” It’s dripping with sarcasm.

Joseph nods, completely serious. “Earlier, the only reason you ate was because I told you to. You only get out of your house if I word things in a way that implies you’re already going, like with New Year’s Eve at Brian’s.”

He does have a bit of a point, loathe as he is to admit it. Marilyn had nagged a lot, had made sure he ate even when he felt like vomiting at the taste of water. Marilyn made him get a job, made him go to work every day, even told him that she found a house and leaving no room for argument that it would be theirs. And the more he delves into that, the worse he feels. As a child, he did what his mother said. When she died, he did what his peers said because his dad wasn’t around much. When he got Marilyn pregnant, he did what society said. He’s always been under someone’s thumb, always doing what someone asks of him or tells him to do. The only reason he went to the unemployment office was because of Neil, but that was less of the bartender telling him to do something than suggesting. Maybe that’s where the gray line is; how many of those times were just  _ suggestions _ he felt inclined to follow? He’s his own person, damn it, and he can make his own decisions.

He scoffs, turning back to his carving. It looks like a good place to stop, though, so he leans to put it on top of the wagon that carries their gear and scoots back into the tent, awkwardly flipping around in the tight quarters to put his head at the right end. “Yeah, and you don’t know me that well. Like right now? I’m taking a nap. I’m telling myself to do that, because I’m not a fucking child. If we’re going out tonight, we need sleep. So you sleep, too.”

Joseph frowns, sitting up as Robert wrestles blankets over himself. He zips up the doorway and shifts to lay like Robert, their shoulders touching once he gets under the blankets as well. The heater is shoved in the corner of the tent on the lowest possible setting to avoid a fire, and they’re still in their sweaters in the cold. The night will be a real test of their endurance.

“I would know more about you if you talked more,” Joseph says after a beat, turning on his side so he can see Robert. An arm snakes over his hips beneath the blanket, but Robert still refuses to look at him. He shuts his eyes. “You act like some of the kids I’ve seen at youth group, adult or not. You hide behind this big gruff exterior to hide something. I’m not asking you to spill your heart out, Robert, but let me in? Just a little?”

He doesn’t reply. Maybe he can pretend he’s asleep.

“I know you didn’t fall asleep that fast.”

Damn it.

He heaves a sigh, though keeps his eyes shut. “My favorite color’s red.”

There’s a beat before Joseph lets out a little laugh, squeezing his arm around Robert to cuddle closer. The weight and heat of another person feels nice. “See? Was that so hard?”

“Yes.”

Another small laugh and Robert can feel Joseph’s breath tickle his neck. “Tell me something else.”

“Bullshit. I already did.” He’s not even that interesting of a person. Most of his memories are twisted and fucked from being high or drunk on the occasion. The other ones hurt too much to think about, or make him reminisce a time when his life wasn’t getting fucked over by a demon. “Nap now. Talk later.”

“Promise?”

“I don’t promise things.” He ends up breaking them.

Joseph relents, though still cuddles close to him as they sleep. Their shared body heat warms the blankets while the heater keeps their feet warm, and a nap accidentally turns into nearly six hours of sleep when Robert feels himself being roused from slumber. Roused in more than one way, once he becomes aware enough to tell that, yes, that is a mouth sucking little love bites into his neck, and that is a hand under his sweater petting at his chest.

“Mm…” He cracks an eye open to see that the tent is darkened with the encrouching evening, but there’s still a soft glow that seeps in through the fabric walls. But he decides he doesn’t really want to see, closing his eyes as he tilts his head for Joseph to have more access, hands half-heartedly holding onto the arm that disappears under the pillow he’s resting on.

“We slept for a while,” Joseph breathes, voice gruff with his own sleep and warm breath brushing over Robert’s ear. He noses against his jaw, lips leaving a wet trail until Robert bonelessly rolls his head to meet him for a kiss. It’s slow and sleepy, tasting of peanuts and jerky, but Robert lets his lips part for Joseph’s tongue regardless. The arm that’s under his sweater suddenly moves to scoop around the heated skin of his lower back, Joseph following the movement so he’s hovering over him. Resting on his elbow of the arm Robert finally releases, he pulls from the kiss breathless and with a smile that catches in the dull light.

Robert’s arms fall to drape over Joseph’s shoulders, eyes bleary in the light. He can proudly say he’s never been woken up like this, but it’s something he can get used to. “Is this the only reason you came along?” Shit, his voice is scratchy.

Joseph moans at the sound of it though, leaning down to press more kisses to his jaw, where stubble is growing back fast. “No… By the way, I liked the beard. Why’d you shave it?”

“Work,” he answers, not going into more detail than that. Joseph is about to ask for clarification, but he’s quick to catch him in another breath-stealing kiss instead. His hips raise to find Joseph’s, to find him just as hard as he is. He’s pushed back down, however, when his hips press down to rut against him, a moan passing between their lips in a way that Robert honestly can’t tell who it came from.

It breaks messier than the first, and Joseph tucks into Robert’s neck as he whines, hips rolling against Robert’s to give them friction through their pants. “Fuck, Robert, I didn’t even bring lube…”

There’s a beat before Robert bursts into giggles, using his leverage around Joseph’s neck to pull him closer, to feel that broad body pressing full weight onto him. It’s therapeutic, almost. “You woke me up all sexy-like, and we can’t even do it.”

Joseph laughs too, resting against him. “I was in a rush… I didn’t even think to grab it.”

Robert hums, just holding Joseph against him for a moment. He’s hard, full mast under his jeans, and it’s painful to think it’s just going to wither away with nothing. He wants this, wants Joseph, but he’s not stupid enough to try anything without the proper preparation. He can tell Joseph wants it too, length hard through his khakis against his hip.

“I’ll suck your cock.”

Joseph splutters, sitting up a bit. “You-”

Robert props himself up on his elbows. “I’ll do yours if you do mine?”

Joseph goes red. “Like… sixty-nine?”

“Oh, fuck no. I’m not athletic enough to pull that off. I’d probably accidentally bite your dick off.”

He spares him a laugh. “Yeah, I’d like to avoid any biting down there, if I’m honest.”

Hands grab at Joseph’s hips, pushing the blankets back as he does. “Then drop trou and get on with it, Blondie.”

“Blondie?”

“Shut up.”

“That’s a very unsexy name.”

“Do I have to shove my cock in your mouth to shut you up?”

Joseph grins, and it’s more mischievious than it has any right to be. “Maybe.”

It takes a lot of manuevering and a lot of awkward elbows for them to undress, but soon Robert has Joseph on his back, kissing him brainless as one hand keeps his balance and the other moves to grab at blond hair. He gives a tug and gets a moan in reply, using his leverage to crane Joseph’s head to the side as his lips travel down his neck.

“N-no marks,” he manages to stutter, hands pushing at Robert’s chest. “Not where they’ll see.”

Robert obliges, but not without lowering his head to bite at the center of his chest. “Mm, don’t want the church to know you’re gay? That you can’t keep your hands off me?”

Joseph’s next moan is a whine that comes out in a wheeze.

He wants to drag this out, to see Joseph squirm for him the way Robert did last time. To repay him for the slow torture of denied orgasms, for the sweet release when it finally happens. But he’s impatient, eager even, as he shoves Joseph to move further up so he’s sitting to make room for him between his legs.

He’s hung; something Robert didn’t really think about when offering a blowjob. Sure, he’s sucked dick before, but none of the memories tied with it are really good. He mostly did it for drugs, for money. Not even Marilyn knew about that. And now that he’s here, licking his lips as he stares at Joseph’s cock and the fuzzy blond hair that leads down to it, he knows it’s not the same. It’s  _ Joseph _ , and goddamn if he doesn’t want to do a good job.

It’s awkward at first because he can’t take it all at once without gagging, but Joseph’s a good sport about it. Hands card into his hair as moans and senseless praise leave his lips, and Robert makes sure to tuck away just how many times he says “Jesus Christ” to use as religious blackmail someday. He leaves little bite marks on the insides of his thighs when he needs to stop for breath, and soon he has Joseph shaking and warning him.

He cums, but Robert’s ready. It’s bitter and doesn’t taste good at  _ all _ , but he muscles past it to swallow. He swears he heard a few hairs tear when Joseph’s body spasmed, those hands now limp on his shoulders as his eyes rolls back.

“Ah, fuck, Mary…”

He’s so blissed out, skin covered in a light sheen of sweat, and Robert is aching between his legs for his turn--

Wait, what?  _ Mary _ ?

Robert sits up, forehead pinched as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Joseph finally comes down from his high, and the second he does, he reaches for Robert.

“What did you just say?”

He freezes, hand awkwardly lowering to his thigh. He seems clueless for a moment before his eyes widen, lips parting and closing like a fish until he finds his voice again. “Very! Very good, Robert. That was…” His eyes soften, reaching for him again. “That was amazing, thank you… Mm, can I help you too…?”

He’s pretty sure that’s not what he heard, but even if he  _ did _ say Mary… it doesn’t make sense. Sure, he’s never met Mary’s husband, but he can’t imagine her and Joseph being married or together or  _ something _ . Then again, maybe he just said it as a curse, like the way he had been throwing Jesus Christ around. Either way, it’s enough to take Robert out of the mood. Was Joseph even thinking about him? Does he fantasize about Mary? He doesn’t know, but it makes his skin feel too tight on his bones and he wants to claw it all off. 

He grabs his clothes instead.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s getting late,” he excuses, pulling on his sweater and retrieving his leather jacket from the corner it ended up in. “If we’re going to do something, we have to go now. We need to mark a path back while the light’s still out if we don’t wanna get lost.”

He’s out of the tent before a confused Joseph manages to start dressing himself, and he pulls his phone from his jacket pocket after lighting up a cigarette to get the taste of Joseph out of his mouth. He reads over the text from Mary, the bitter bite to it, and he feels like he just dipped himself in oil and he’s about to be ignited.

Joseph comes out when he’s on his second cigarette, and he just decides to ask.

“Are you married?”

He looks like a deer in the headlights for a moment before he laughs, stepping closer. He tries to peek over Robert’s shoulder to look at his phone, but he tucks it away. “No, of course not.” He leans closer, pressing a kiss to Robert’s jaw, which he allows. “Mm, yeah, I miss the beard.”

Maybe he’s just being paranoid. Maybe he  _ did  _ hear Joseph wrong. But it still makes his skin itch, and he lights up another cigarette as he starts to pick up their gear for their hike. No use overanalyzing it. Ignorance is bliss, and all that.

He dons his headlamp and takes a recorder, Polaroid hanging around his neck. Joseph takes a flashlight and Robert straps a recording night vision camera to his chest. He also has a recorder, and he rifles through his bag for a moment before he procures a bible.

Robert squints. “Seriously?”

He shrugs, clutching the book in his hands. “Just in case. A friend of the church highlighted some portions that may be able to help us if something happens.”

“Wanna know what I brought in case something happens?”

Joseph makes a quizzical noise as Robert unzips a gym bag, pulling out a Weatherby Vanguard, fully loaded. He shoulders the strap, arching a brow at Joseph’s expression.

“Hey, if there’s bears out here, I’m ready.”

“Why do you have a  _ rifle _ ?”

He scoffs, pulling out a Glock 26 and holding it for Joseph to take. “Grew up in Brooklyn. You acquire a few things there.” He and Marilyn had gone on a hunting trip once. Neither one of them shot anything, but it was still fun. She sold her rifle shortly after, but he hung onto his for the possible need. But a Glock later, there wasn’t much excuse other than saying it was sentimental. Which it isn’t. It just feels good to shoot it, even if he’s in a gun range or knocking over cans.

His eyes are wide, staring at the offered weapon. “I…”

Robert shrugs, taking that as a no as he tucks it into a small carrier on his belt. “Won’t take down a bear, I’ll admit, but it’ll scare it.” He pulls a hat out last, tugging it over his graying hair. Fuck, he’s not even forty yet. “You ever killed a man?”

Joseph looks ready to pass out. “Wh… What?”

“Or even shot someone. Watch the agony on their face as blood leaves their body, leaving them crumpled up on the ground and completely at your mercy.”

“I can’t say I have…”

Robert decides to cut it out, shouldering past Joseph to pick a random direction to hike in. “Yeah, neither have I.”

He hears a very faint sigh and a “oh, thank  _ god _ .”

Night sets quickly, but the snow glows under a third-quarter moon. There doesn’t seem to be any sound outside of their crunching footsteps, though they keep the recorders rolling regardless. Joseph tries small talk, but Robert immediately shushes him, warning him not to spoil their recordings. He leads their hike to the area where S. Graves had set up his cameras, but there’s nothing there except marks on the tree from where they were hung. So from there, they just wander aimlessly, knowing they can always just retrace their steps on the way back. From the camp map that Robert had studied, these woods are thick and lead directly up to the highway. Two miles in diameter, which isn’t a very large area for a demon to live in, but he supposes that just makes it easier to case.

It’s a boring hour as they trek through the snow, and both of them are about ready to turn around and head back when there’s a loud crash of branches and a shrieking sound. It cuts off abruptly with a snarl, and there’s muted movement. Joseph looks ready to high tail it, but Robert gestures for him to stay as he pulls the Weatherby out and clicks off the safety. Something, something  _ big _ , crunches through the underbrush, and then it’s silent.

“Robert… We should go…”

He ignores him, stepping cautiously towards where the noise came from. The snow mutes his footsteps to a degree, though he still holds his breath as he steps over a fallen log and sees the scene before him.

The snow is all tossed about from a struggle, branches and bushes broken and lying in a mess. But that isn’t the part that’s scary.

A doe lies in the center of it all, still faintly twitching with her last bit of life. Something ripped her chest wide open, straight down through her underbelly. Her organs have spilled onto the snow, staining everything red. Her eyes are wide, panicked, and when she sees Robert stepping closer, she tries to move but only manages to twitch her legs, which are gnarled and scratched all to hell. Probably from running through the woods and bushes.

He takes a breath, breathing in the coppery smell of it. Joseph steps up behind him, and he hears his short gasp before a whispered prayer. He waits until he’s done with his piece to raise the rifle and put the poor girl out of her misery.

“What did this…?” Joseph asks, voice shaking. “She’s…  _ gutted _ …”

He keeps the Weatherby ready, hair on end and heart slamming his ribs. “It wasn’t an animal. An animal would’ve stayed to either finish the job or eat it.”

“Robert, there’s no way--”

He rounds on him, eyes a bit crazed. “This thing has killed before, Joseph! I know it can--”

A loud shriek tears through the woods, though it isn’t anything like the noises the dying doe had let out. It’s like metal scraping on metal; the same sound he captured on his recorder on Christmas Eve. It shakes him to his bones, and he raises his rifle as he continues to move forward.

“Robert! Robert, we need to go back!”

Robert ignores him. He steps carefully through the snow, following the trickle of blood that smears through hurried hoofprints. The thing is… It doesn’t look like there are any other prints. So what the  _ hell _ …

“Robert!”

He turns, following the trembling beam of Joseph’s flashlight as it settles on an enormous boulder that juts from the ground. It’s mostly covered in snow, but from the shadows of Joseph’s light, he spots an engraving.

“What do you think this is…?”

Taking up most of the face of the boulder is an abstract carving. It’s a circle with four spokes coming out of it, almost like a compass. There’s a circle in the middle that looks like a drilled hole, and Robert lowers his Weatherby to try to look inside.

“Is there anything in there?”

It’s a hole about the size of his fist, but it goes down deeper than his arm is long. It doesn’t look like there’s anything inside when Joseph shines his light inside; just black, dark rock.

“Is it some kind of… pentagram? Do you think?”

“No,” Robert says slowly, stepping back. Looking around the base of the stone, he sees that the doe’s frantic running starts here, along with the first drops of blood. It could be a summoning point for the Dover Ghost, or it could be an attempt at a protection sigil. “Hold this.”

He passes the gun to Joseph, who takes it as if he’s afraid it’ll explode. Robert takes up his Polaroid and snaps a few pictures of it, getting different angles, and then more pictures of the hoofprints and blood. He snaps some pictures of the surrounding forest for good measure, because he’s getting the sneaking suspicion that they aren’t as alone in these woods as they’d like to think.

He takes the gun back when he’s done, though he doesn’t put it away. He keeps it out as they poke around a bit more, but it’s cold and they’re both shaken up, so they head back to the campsite on a silent agreement.

They’re halfway back when Joseph freezes, looking around and frantically patting himself down.

“What? You drop something?”

“My Bible,” he blurts, eyes wide with panic. “My Bible, where did it go?”

Robert tries to think. “You didn’t have it when you found that boulder. I don’t remember before that.”

He curses under his breath, which seems like something a minister probably shouldn’t do upon losing his bible, but it’s too damn cold to arrange a search party for it. They continue walking, though Joseph seems even more shaken up by that. Once they reach the tent, Joseph hesitates.

“We… We should just go back. If something can kill that deer…” He leaves the rest unsaid. It makes Robert’s stomach churn.

“Yeah, yeah… You’re right.” He doesn’t want to stay here for the rest of the night. He knew the Dover Ghost was able to kill, but this…  _ gutting _ of a doe? That’s too much for him to handle. Too much to even comprehend. “Prop the flashlight up in that tree so we can see and pack up.”

Tearing down the tent is easier and faster than putting it up, though it takes Robert and his numb fingers a good fifteen minutes just to get the thing to fit back into the bag. Joseph cleans up everything else, and they load up their backpacks, bags, and the wagon to trek back to the truck with a silence between them that betrays just how scared they both are.

As soon as they get to the truck, they waste no time at all in getting in and taking off. They have to hassle with the gate again, but they manage to get out. The only proof of their being there will be their tracks and the game camera Robert left tied to a tree.

As they drive in silence to the lull of Tom Waits, Joseph leans back and shuts his eyes. He looks like he just ran a mile and saw a ghost at the finish line, but Robert can’t really blame him. His hands are white-knuckled on the steering wheel, and every little thing he sees out of the corner of his eye from shadows or reflectors makes him twitch. He’s also driving ten under the speed limit, but it’s one in the morning--

“Joseph.”

He startles from his doze as Robert reaches over to punch his thigh. “What, what?”

“What time was it when we left to hike?”

He rubs at his face, looking up at the top of the cab. “Around… eight? Why do you ask?”

“Look what time it is.”

He lowers his head to look, and if possible, he goes even  _ more _ pale.

“There’s no way we were in those woods for more than an hour.”

“What… What does that mean?”

“I dunno,” he says, rushed. He’s starting to panic. He can feel the anxiety building up, beginning to choke him. “I dunno. Usually time loss is linked with aliens--”

“You think an alien killed that deer? Do you think that symbol we found was--”

“Shit!” He slams his hand on the wheel, nearly veering off the road. He can hardly breathe. He needs to go faster. Get home. Get a drink. He has some weed under his bed. “I don’t fuckin’ know! I dunno what any of this is anymore! I-” He swerves into the cul-de-sac, managing to swing into his own driveway. He throws it into park, hands reaching up to push against his face, as if he can push the anxiety back down. “I’m fuckin’  _ scared _ …”

Joseph reaches over to squeeze his shoulder, though it does little considering they’re both spooked. “Why don’t you come inside? I can make some coffee.” He offers him a smile, rubbing down to his back. “You could use some. Or tea.”

“I could use a fuckin’ line of cocaine.”

Joseph startles at that. “No… No, Robert, I thought you stopped that after the hospital.”

He laughs. It almost sounds crazed. “Fuck no. I need it.”

“Why don’t you come in?”

It takes a bit more coaxing, but Robert finally follows Joseph inside. His suitcase is a little more full than when he came and as he steps inside his darkened house, he opens it to find Robert’s blue sweater bunched on top.

Joseph’s house is nice. There’s a big fireplace with a swordfish over it that may or may not be real, and an arrangement of couches and chairs around a TV. A bookshelf is shoved in the corner, but Robert can’t see much more from the lamp light. The whole place smells like Linen Breeze Yankee candles.

“Ah, here.” He holds it out, but Robert shrugs, hands stuffed in his pockets. 

“Nah, you can keep it. Blue looks shitty on me anyway.” He looks up to see Joseph holding it, to see how it brings out his eyes. Fuck, why is he looking at his eyes? “Looks good on you,” he says instead.

A light flips on in an ajoining hallway to reveal Mary, arms crossed over her belly as she leans against the wall. She’s in her pajamas; gray sweatpants and a severely oversized t-shirt that says MAPLE BAY FLAPJACKS. Joseph startles at her appearance, though he calms to smile as he drops the sweater into his suitcase.

“I’m sorry, Mary. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Her eyes are sharp, features unnaturally calm otherwise. “Oh, I know you didn’t.”

Joseph makes an awkward sort of noise, looking between Robert and Mary like a butterfly with its wings pinned. “Um, Mary, you know Robert, don’t you?”

Robert opens his mouth to answer, but Mary snaps across them.

“No. Why don’t you introduce us?”

Joseph looks like he would rather catch fire on the spot. He keeps looking between the two of them, and Robert feels his anxiety reaching a boiling point. He’s interfering in something personal between them. He shouldn’t be here.

Mary clears her throat.

Joseph inhales, turning to Robert with those clasped hands that never mean anything good. He looks guilty, it’s written all over his face, and Robert should have known what he was going to say before he says it.

“Robert, this is Mary. My… wife.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be NO UPDATE next Friday, as I'm taking a road trip for a few days. There will be an update on the 20th though!
> 
> Ain't I a stinker? :3c


	7. Blue Skies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [ song for this chapter. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YErXozSHW9w&index=26&list=RDEMRmvyz97IM_zC6MC6oLoh1w)
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://degraded-psychotic.tumblr.com).
> 
> There's a fun cameo in this chapter of another BL game in this chapter because I was having trouble making an oc. So there. First person to guess who it is gets shot (of whiskey)
> 
> And speaking of ocs; in a couple chapters' time, good ol' Dadsona is gonna show up. Now, I've played Dream Daddy so many times that I have a dozen or so Dadsonas, and I can't just pick one, y'know? So your task is to send me your Dadsonas! Instructions on how and when the deadline will be are at the bottom, so enjoy the chapter first <3

If he weren’t already tense and shaking from the anxiety, he would be by now. He'd probably have a heart attack, honestly. For a second, he thinks - hopes - that Joseph is joking. But he looks too guilty for that; too scared, those blue eyes watching him closely and refusing to look back at Mary. At his _wife_. His wife who is now is blinking rapidly, and Robert doesn’t realize until a hand goes to her face that she’s struggling, and failing, to hold back tears. 

The first thing out of his mouth should probably be an apology to Mary. A lie to brush off that, no, he hasn’t been sexually active with her husband and wasn’t just admiring his eyes two minutes prior. But it’s none of that, and when he says it, his voice comes out too weak, too broken, for what he had intended.

“You lied to my face.”

Mary turns and leaves the room, hand over her eyes as she returns to bed with tears tracking down her face.

Joseph’s clasped hands squeeze each other. “I didn’t think it would be that big of an issue." He takes a breath, amending his statement. "With you.”

With him? Why? Because he cheated on Marilyn? Because he had sex with this guy a few months after her death as if nothing happened? “Then why’d you lie?”

He parts his lips to defend, but Robert takes a step back, fists clenched in his jacket pockets. 

“I cheated on Marilyn, I felt like shit about it, but I never did when she was pregnant with my fucking child, Joseph. Mary’s carrying your children! You’re starting a  _ family _ , and you cheat?!” There’s the strength in his voice that he wanted. Though, it still shakes. His entire body is shaking, down to his bones. “Don’t you try to pin this on me. You don’t even wear your ring!”

“Robert, I can expla--”

“I don’t wanna hear it! Go comfort your wife, you  _ fucking cunt _ !”

The word makes him feel dirty, but he already feels like he’s dripping in oil and burning alive. He's only said that word once before, and it was spat at Marilyn during one of their worst arguments. He had immediately felt guilty, felt awful, and held her so close that he wished he could absorb her deep into his apologies. But this time, there is no remorse for using it. Just a gross, sticky feeling for using the word in the first place. Joseph certainly looks taken aback, and Robert takes the opportunity of his stunned silence to leave, slamming the door behind him as he hears a baby begin to cry from being woken up. 

He feels like he's going to explode. He doesn't bother unpacking anything, slamming into his house and immediately tearing the place apart. He has to have some weed, coke, ecstasy,  _ anything _ . He started hiding it once he knew Joseph wasn't above coming over and cleaning and throwing away his stash. At least he won't have to worry about that anymore.

He finds some marijuana under the couch and immediately lights up a shitty, rushed blunt, hands shaking so badly that he nearly drops the lighter. But he needs something right now, adrenaline too high and anxiety threatening to suffocate him. He feels like he'll explode, like his skin will squeeze him too tight and he'll turn into a puddle on the floor for someone else to discover and step in. Even in death, he'd ruin someone's life.

The blunt helps, but he's paranoid to look out his windows or be anywhere in his house with the lights off. He's worried he'll see Joseph getting kicked out, or worse; like something covered in a doe’s fresh blood. So all the lights are on, all the curtains closed tight, and he eventually makes it up to bed. But he still feels like he’s suffocating beneath his own skin. He knows the symptoms enough to know what it is, but that doesn't stop him from feeling like he's dying. Like something’s squeezing him so tight that his head is about to pop off. Stripping off his clothes like they’re burning helps a bit, but smothering himself in his pillow seems like a better option.

Did Mary know? Did Joseph know that Mary knew? Did Mary know that Joseph knew that Mary knew? 

He feels hypocritical for being so upset about this. He had cheated on Marilyn countless times, and while he felt dirty and slimy about it every time, he never got this upset. Maybe it’s because Joseph had been the one to initiate it. Maybe it’s because Mary is  _ pregnant _ , an even Robert wouldn’t stoop so low as to cheat on his wife when she was pregnant with his child. No, he had married her instead. Gotten a  _ real _ job so he could support her and their baby and have a home. No, the cheating came after. When Valerie was a year old and Marilyn went back to work. When he tried getting clean, but relapsed after two weeks of mood swings and fights. The beginning of a very long, very steep fall from the closest thing to grace and happiness Robert had ever been.

It’s the sequence of events that led up to the discovery of Joseph’s infidelity that has him in the grasp of an anxiety attack. The camping, the sudden addition of another in a one-man tent, hearing Mary’s name on Joseph’s lips when it should have been his. The open denial of being married, which Robert knows can come too easily sometimes; easier than explaining. The hiking, the doe, the sound, the rock, the lost time… And then Mary catching them and making Joseph confess in the worst way. It’s too much in too little time, and he’s having a hard time sorting it all out. He needs booze, needs drugs, needs something to distract him from all of it. Bury himself beneath pretenses that he’s  _ fine _ , that it doesn’t bother him, that he’s not freaked out, angry, upset,  _ whatever _ he’s feeling. Fuck, he can’t even identify his own emotions. He's never been able to. That's what crutches are for.

The anxiety attack wears him out as his adrenaline drops, or maybe it’s the shortness of breath caused by hyperventilating into his pillow, and sleep takes him over.

He doesn’t sleep for as long as he usually does, which means he actually slept a normal amount of time for a human being, and when he wakes, every muscle in his body is aching. Even his head has a dull throb to it, and he spends another hour just hiding under his blankets as if that can make it go away. He knows it's from being tense, from stress. From the hell of a day he had yesterday. Maybe if he stays in bed long enough, he'll wake up from the nightmare.

He doesn't wake up again.

He eventually gets up and dressed, adjusting the thermostat to fix the winter chill as he listens to the gurgle of the coffee pot. He’s much calmer now, though there’s still anger boiling under his skin about Joseph. He’s mad at himself, too, for not picking up the hints. Never meeting Mary’s husband, never being invited into Joseph’s house until last night… Whatever. It’s over now, he supposes.

A couple cups of coffee and some bitter inflection later and he’s finally unloading the truck. He needs to try to properly pack away Brian’s tent before he returns it, but he just drops it on the floor of the living room and brings cameras and recorders upstairs to his computer to download them. The computer sounds like it’s about to have a digital aneurysm as it downloads everything, Robert leaned back in his chair with a cigarette as he shifts through the Polaroid shots.

He had taken a few random shots of the woods, but there’s nothing spectacular in them. Just trees and snow. One of them shows Joseph’s back, and he tosses that one to the floor. He gets to the pictures of the boulder and sits up a little straighter, balancing his cigarette on the edge of his ashtray as he looks at them closely. The snow at the base of the thing is disrupted from the deer, but thanks to the flash of the camera, he catches some details carved into the stone that he hadn’t noticed earlier. 

There are two more spokes coming out of the circle in addition to the four they originally saw. These don’t really look like carvings, though, but more like scratches from a knife or something of the sort. The whole symbol looks rushed despite the obvious meaning behind it, but in the images, there’s nothing unusual whatsoever. Other than the boulder and the bloody hoofprints, of course. 

He keeps the shots, stacking them on the corner of his desk as he takes a drag and starts opening files from the downloads. The trail cameras are totally empty save for when he or Joseph stepped into frame, except for one image showing a squirrel  _ really _ close to the lens. It’s kind of funny and makes him chuckle at the expression on the thing’s face; clearly he set his camera up in the poor guy’s house. So far, that seems to be the most interesting thing he’s caught on still imagery, and he prints it off just for the laugh value of it. The audio files finish downloading next, and he turns the speakers to max as he leans back and listens. It’s just their footsteps, occasionally their voices… He hears the disruption of the doe’s death, the loud shot of his rifle. His shoulder aches a bit at the sound of it, sure he’s got a bruise from the back-kick. 

And then there’s the screech.

He fumbles with the dials on the speakers to turn it down, the sound stabbing knives into his ears. He turns it back up once the sound is over, listening to himself and Joseph discovering the boulder. The snap of the Polaroid, the crunch of snow as they walked around… And then the recording glitches. It skips, the first recording having ended and a second one starting. He must have forgotten to shut it off, because he hears them packing up the camp.

_ “Blood.” _

Goosebumps immediately spring up on his arms, the hair at the base of his neck standing up. He fumbles with the mouse, clicking back and leaning forward to listen. It’s there, he heard it right, and the voice is scratchy and distorted. It’s drawled out, almost a growl, and then the recorder dies again. There is no third round of audio.

He cuts the portion of the file where the voice is heard as well as the bit with the screeching, saving them both to an ever-growing file on his desktop titled DOVER GHOST. His computer dings and startles him as it alerts him to the video having finished, and he’s shaking acutely as he smashes what’s left of his cigarette into the tray and opens the file.

The video’s audio is low and poor quality, but the images are crystal. The colors are lacking thanks to the night vision, but considering everything is white with snow, it doesn’t really matter. The footage is mostly of Robert’s back as Joseph follows him, coming to an abrupt halt when they hear the doe. Once the camera lands on the scene, Robert pauses it, going frame-by-frame to take screenshots of the doe’s body. The organs on the snow, the blood melting it with fresh warmth… It makes him a little sick. The screech comes through on the video audio when he plays it at normal speed again, and as he watches himself head towards the noise, the camera turns to catch the boulder before they had seen it in the line of their flashlights.

The night vision glints against a pair of eyes.

He pauses and rewinds by single frames until he sees it again. They’re high up, probably six feet from the ground, and spaced apart. They shine green, peeking around from the side of the boulder. Looking straight at them. He takes a screenshot as a chill goes down his spine, and when he clicks to the next frame, the eyes are abruptly gone. He flips back, noticing that the night vision camera’s view doesn’t go far enough to tell if there’s a body attached to those eyes… But honestly, he’s kind of relieved at that. Maybe it was just a couple of bugs or… something. He doesn’t think about it too much as he hits play once more.

He watches himself step around and hand Joseph the gun, snapping images of the boulder. Joseph is still clutching the rifle when he turns, putting his back to the scene as Robert snaps pictures. He’s unsure what he could be looking at, but then the audio glitches with white noise. He turns it up and rewinds, leaning closer to the speakers so he can hear if there’s anything in the sound. 

_ “Come.” _

He frowns, replaying it over and over. The moment just after the noise, he hears Joseph gasp, stepping backwards and turning back to Robert. The gun exchanges hands once more, and they begin walking back to the campsite. They pass the doe again, though give the murder scene a decent berth so they don’t have to see the carnage again. And there, half buried in blood-stained snow, is Joseph’s Bible.

It’s only in frame for a moment before they pass it by, and it’s clear Joseph doesn’t notice it. He takes note of the time stamp before he rewinds back to the moment they were in the area, but he doesn’t hear Joseph drop the book to the snow. Doesn’t even see it there. Weird, yes, but easily explainable. The audio isn’t the best; it’s entirely possible that it just didn’t come through. But wouldn’t Joseph have noticed when he dropped it…?

He brushes it off, resuming the point he was at. 

There’s nothing else for the rest of the recording, Joseph having turned off the camera upon returning to camp. He sets about trimming it up, saving the entire video and then the highlights separately. The doe, the eyes, the boulder, the fuzzy growl of an order, the Bible in the bloody snow. Once he’s finished, he looks it all over again, but keeps finding himself staring at the Polaroids he snapped of the sigil carved into the stone.

It has to mean  _ something _ . Obviously something like that doesn’t happen naturally. Someone carved it with purpose. Is it a summoning circle? A protection? A landmark?

He tries Google for any hits of a six-pointed circle, but gets nothing other than  _ did you mean: six pointed  _ **_star_ ** _?  _ He digs through old boxes to find a book Marilyn bought him about runes and alien calligraphy, though finds nothing even remotely similar to what he sees in the image. It’s frustrating, knowing he’s reached a dead end on learning what it means, but he sits in silent contemplation for a long moment before he gets an idea.

Several Google searches and a printed out map later have him driving for nearly an hour to pull into a nondescript strip mall halfway between Maple Bay and Boston. There’s a liquor store that tempts him, a Family Dollar, a movie rental place, and then the simple sign of the place he’s looking for.  He makes sure he has the Polaroid in his pocket before he pushes the door open, ringing a little chime above the door. Before the door can even shut, he’s being scared out of his fucking pants by a cockatoo on a perch beside the exit side that screeches “Hello!”

“Jesus fuck,” he mutters, shooting the bird a nasty look. It chatters nonsense at him before whistling and puffing up his feathers, hopping down a hand-crafted ladder to waddle across the floor. It walks away to climb onto a display of quartz pendulums, whistling to itself like the little idiot it is at the reflection he catches in the stone.

Robert hates birds.

Aside from the only employee he's seen, the store itself isn’t arranged very well, with displays wherever they fit. There’s a table with nothing but rocks and gems, a shelf of tarot cards and astrology books, a cabinet of herbs and teas, shelves of crystal balls, a table of spirit boards, and another cabinet of essential oils. He eventually finds the desk where check-out is, a man with thick brown hair braided and pinned with a feather sipping coffee from a mug that says WITCH BETTER HAVE MY MONEY.

“Can I help you?”

Robert digs out the picture, placing it on the counter for the man to see. He gets a raised brow in response and another slow sip of coffee, a pipe in his other hand that smells sweet and distinctly not like normal smoking tobacco. Not like Robert is one to judge. The silence stretches for a moment just long enough to make it awkward before Robert finally prods him, wondering if this guy is just too baked to figure it out.

“Do you know what this sigil means?”

Dark eyes look down at the picture, fingers tucking his pipe between his lips and abandoning his coffee to pick it up. He looks at it for a long time, but his expression is completely unreadable. Guy’s practically chiseled out of clay.  “Yes,” he says around his pipe after a moment, placing the picture down as the cockatoo climbs another ladder to get to the desk, where a bowl of sunflower seeds is his target.

Robert waits for him to expand on that. He doesn’t. “And it means…?”

“Can’t tell you,” he says shortly, leaning back and puffing at his pipe. Smoke washes over Robert’s face, his eyes watering. He resists the urge to cough.

“Can’t or won’t?”

The man seems to think, eyes traveling over to look at the bird trying to cram as many seeds as possible into his beak. He notices and chatters at him in kind, bobbing his head before hopping across the desk and using his feet and beak to climb to the man’s shoulder, where he starts to play with one of the feathers in his hair. 

“Won’t.”

He huffs in aggravation, leaning against the tall counter. “Why not?”

Another puff. Another long moment. “Have you been messing with the spirit in the woods of Maple Bay?”

So he  _ does _ know. “The Dover Ghost?”

He shrugs. The bird squawks in indignation and the man winces when he pulls on a braid in revenge. “Whatever you want to call it, you shouldn’t mess with it.”

“I’m just trying to get answers from it.”

The man points the stem of his pipe at him. “That’s messing with it.”

He rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Why shouldn’t I?”

The man doesn’t pause this time, and his words are just as monotone as the ones that came before. “It’ll kill you.”

He remembers the dream he had with Marilyn. The crash that killed Jasmine. The gutted doe. 

“I ain’t got anything to live for.”

The man stands from his stool, and Robert tries not to be surprised at this guy’s height. He doesn’t wanna run into him in the middle of the night in a dark alley, and that’s saying something. 

“Maybe you don’t, but it can hurt people around you. Don’t start killing people by being a fucking idiot,” he deadpans, stepping over to grab a bag from the herb cabinet. He tosses it to the desk, the bag sliding into Robert’s elbow. “Take that. You’ll need it. Now get out of my store.”

He picks up the bag, inspecting the label. “Osha root?”

He sits on the stool again, the bird now napping on his shoulder. “Carry it on you. Put some in your house. You need it, trust me.”

Free is free, he supposes, and he's anxious enough to be willing to take some precautions. He stuffs it in his pocket, flashing the Polaroid at the local witch again. “You’re not going to tell me what this means?”

“No.”

“You gonna tell me who can?”

He picks up his coffee, taking a deep sip before he answers. “Even if I did, it wouldn’t do you any good. As far as I know, the people that know what that is have all left the state. Maybe the country.” He pauses, taking another drink. “Then again, if it’s active now, they could be back. I have no idea how to find them. I don’t want to. You shouldn't either.”

“Them?” Great, is he getting into Satanists all of a sudden? Dark witches? Whatever it is, he doesn’t like the way this is going. The way he speaks of  _them_.

“Them,” he confirms. He sets his mug down, gesturing towards the door. “Now get out. I need to cleanse this place of the shit you just brought in here.”

He takes that as his final dismissal, knowing he’s not going to get anything else from this guy. He mutters a semi-sarcastic thanks as he leaves, and as the chime over the door rings, he hears the bird abruptly wake from his nap and squawk “hello!”

He buys a cheap beer from the liquor store to masquerade the tiny bottles of whiskey he just shoplifted. 

Basic shopping done, he climbs into his truck and shakes a little bit of the Osha root onto the floor of his car.

Once he gets home, he sips his beer and does some more research. Osha root, he discovers, is one of the strongest herbs for exorcism and to repel evil. What, did this guy think he was possessed? He’s not. He’s done enough research into the paranormal to know the signs of it. Then again, he’s already pretty fucked up emotionally and mentally and basically every other way, so it would be a little hard to determine if he feels like shit because he feels like shit or if he feels like shit because he’s possessed by a fucking forest spirit.

But he does what the man suggested. He puts some of the osha root in his pockets and on his desk in addition to what he had already dumped in his car, though he doesn’t have much faith in herbalism. He does have faith in sigils and apparent small-town Satanists though, and he wonders where he could find “them” and get some of his answers. Though, judging by the way the witch had spoken of them and the carving on the boulder, the symbol they know doesn’t have any good intentions.

He does a bit more research and then rots his brain with TV before it’s a reasonable hour to go drinking. He’s still broke as hell, but he moved a few dollars from savings to his card so it won’t get declined immediately next time he uses it. Though with the frequency that he visits Jim and Kim’s, he’s sure Neil wouldn’t mind starting him a tab.

It’s a Tuesday and relatively dead, a few barflies here and there. There’s a college basketball game on TV that no one really seems to be watching, and as he takes his usual stool, Neil is already sliding him a whiskey. His head hurts, and he gives a little groan as he rubs his forehead.

“You look like shit.”

He probably does. He hasn’t showered in a few days, his hair’s all fucked up, and he’s tired. He just shrugs it off and slams back the whiskey, pushing his glass over for a refill.

“Well, I have some news to tell you.” Neil gives him a look, glancing to the other patrons before he leans a bit closer. He holds the empty glass, though doesn't fill it. His face falls to something much more serious. “A guy came in here asking about you.”

Robert frowns, brow furrowed. “A guy?”

“Yeah, he had a picture of you in the woods. Wanted to know who you were. I dunno, it was weird.”

A picture of him in the woods from S. Graves’ trail camera? “What’d you tell him?”

“Your name. Robert. I dunno your last name.”

He blinks before he groans. “Seriously? Why would you--”

“He had a badge. I didn’t want to get in the way of anything! I’m a shit liar anyway. Besides, there's tons of Roberts in Maple Bay. Some of them probably look like you, too.”

“Oh my  _ god _ , Neil, that’s even more of a reason to not tell him anything!” Great.  _ Great _ . They’re probably going to ticket him for trespassing and god  _ damn _ it all, he doesn’t have the money for that! “Was he with the cops? Feds? The fuckin’ National Guard?”

Neil straightens up, finally granting Robert his refill. “Local police, I think. I dunno, I didn’t look at it too close.”

Robert slams back his whiskey. God  _ damn _ . It burns, but it’s good. He needed that. “You get a name?”

Neil thinks for a minute, pouring out a third shot for him. “Saul? I think his last name was like… Grays, or something?”

“Graves?”

“Yeah, that's it!”

Great. S. Graves is a fucking cop. He groans, running a hand over his face. “Now I gotta change my name and flee the country. Thanks a  _ load _ , Neil.”

Neil gives a weak laugh. “Yeah, yeah. I’m sure it’s no big deal. He didn’t seem too pissed about it. Just curious.”

“If he was just curious, he wouldn’t’ve pulled a badge on you.”

“At least it wasn’t a gun.”

He rolls his eyes so hard he makes himself dizzy for a moment. “Yeah. Thank god.”

Neil grabs a glass and a rag, getting to work. “Hey, if you end up in jail, I promise I'll come to visit and smuggle you some Jameson.”

“At least someone will.” It’s mostly muttered into his drink, but judging by the wry smile on Neil’s face, he heard it. 

He sips his way through his third and to his fourth as he blindly watches basketball on the mounted TV, what little conversation he had in him being fried up by Neil’s inevitable betrayal. Seems like that’s been happening a lot to him lately. Except Neil’s betrayal is something he can forgive. Joseph’s… not so much.

He ends last call with a shot of Fireball that gives him the heat and burn that he had been looking for, and when Neil tries to swipe his card, he tries not to flinch at the low beep that means his card has been declined. Thankfully, Neil gets it, taking the bill and writing the date on it with Robert’s name.

“Wanna start a tab?”

“Read my mind.”

His steps are a bit crooked and he sways in the cold as he walks home, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his leather jacket with a hat tugged over his ears. He’ll sleep like a baby tonight, if the bleariness of his sight is anything to go by. It’s something he needs after the last few days; just to pass out for a while and reset everything. Forget about husbands cheating on their pregnant wives, demons that order you to come and ask for blood and kill deer, birds that screech greetings that are nicer than the owner, and cops asking around for information about him from a trail camera picture. It’s been an overwhelming forty-eight hours, and he’s ready to put it all behind him.

He’s passing on the sidewalk in front of the vacant shop windows that now have a sign that declares the Coffee Spoon is coming soon when he trips over something that yelps. He nearly falls flat on his face, but catches himself on the brick wall of the building, scowling down at a cardboard box he just rammed his foot into. It’s taped shut and soggy, and he’s about to continue walking until it moves. Squinting, he watches again. There’s a scraping sound, and then the box falls still.

Scowling, he kneels down into the salted slush on the sidewalk, digging his knife out of his pocket. He drags the box towards himself and something yelps again, so when he cuts the tape, he makes sure he doesn’t stick the blade in too far to avoid hurting whatever’s inside. He’s heard stories of kittens and puppies being dumped like this, and he’s not entirely sure what to do if he finds something like that in here. Maybe it's a fucking baby; who knows? But he opens it regardless, and he’s greeted by loud whimpering and scamper of something cowering to the corner of the box.

It’s a puppy.

She’s alone in the box save for a blanket that’s soaked in what smells like urine. She’s shivering, and when Robert touches her head, he finds her cold to the touch. She hardly moves, hardly looks at him, a whine in her throat as she trembles. She’s so  _ tiny _ she can’t possibly be old enough to be away from her mother. It twists his stomach to think someone boxed her up like this just to let her die in the cold…

Robert may be an irresponsible, self-destructive, emotionally unavailable son of a bitch, but he’s not heartless.

He acts fast, pulling off his hat and using it to scoop her up. She’s limp and so very,  _ very _ light as he pulls her close to his chest, standing up to peer at her under the light of a streetlamp. She’s black and white, kind of like a cow, and her ears are tiny and pointed, face smashed flat by genetics. But most importantly, she looks on the edge of starvation and hypothermia, and he needs to hurry up and get her safe.

He tucks her under his jacket to try to keep her warm, steps faster and with more purpose than before. He’s still drunk, still feels his balance fumble at times, but he holds onto his find tightly as if she’s made of the most fragile glass.

He’s seen signs for an animal rescue before, but considering that it’s the middle of the night and he’s drunk, he doubts that he’d be able to make it there on foot and even if he did, he's willing to bet they're not open. So he takes her home, fumbling with his keys before he gets inside. He flips on all the lights and takes her straight upstairs, removing his hat to wrap her in his own sheets instead. He steps into his bathroom to get a Dixie cup full of luke-warm water for her as he returns to the bed, resting the cup on his bedside table as he hauls her onto his lap and starts to pet her in an effort to get her blood flowing again.

His hands get tired by the time she stops shivering, and when he offers her the water, she gives it a suspicious sniff before lapping it up sloppily and greedily. She licks the paper cup dry and he leaves to fetch another cup, letting her drink until she decides she’s too tired. He needs to get her food, but he hardly has food suitable for a human, let alone a puppy. So he just pets her as he carries her down to the kitchen anyway, finding a box of Cheerios that’s nearly empty. If babies can eat those, surely dogs can, right?

She doesn’t eat it, though, and he frowns at that. So he digs in his fridge to find milk that hasn’t gone bad, pouring it in a bowl and heating it briefly in the microwave to make it about room temperature. He sets it on the floor beside her and she drinks it up with so much gusto that it splashes onto the linoleum. He spares a little chuckle for her before he gets an idea, dropping a few Cheerios into the milk and poking them around until they get soggy. She eats them right up. Encouraged, he drops more in until she’s lapped up the entire bowl and about a handful and a half of Cheerios. Her big eyes blink at him, butt wiggling as she nudges into his leg and he pulls her onto his lap, leaning back against the counter. He dries the milk from her face with the edge of his shirt, chuckling lightly as she tries to lick it off the fabric again.

They both fall asleep there.

Robert wakes up shortly after dawn to find his jeans are damp. He wonders for a long moment if he pissed himself, but when a puppy whimpers and shifts against his foot, he realizes who it’s from and what it is. There’s more on the floor a little bit away, which his leg discovers when he outstretches it.

“Ugh, gross…”

The puppy stays sound asleep as he gets up, and at least having dog piss on his lap gives him an excuse to shower. He changes into another pair of jeans and a sweater, though, grabbing his sheets to carry downstairs for the puppy. He feeds her another warm bowl of soggy Cheerios while eating a cold one for himself. It’s nine by now and he’s sure that the animal rescue is open for the day… Hopefully they can take better care of her than he can.

After she’s eaten and pissed on the floor again (he really needs to buy cleaning supplies), he scoops her up in his sheet and wraps her up the way he used to swaddle Valerie. He tries not to think about the similarity too much, carrying her out to the truck and resting her in the passenger seat.

“You like Tom Waits?”

She whines out the beginning of the bark, but doesn't have the strength to give it full voice.

“You'll like it. Promise.”

The music seems to lull her to sleep, or maybe it’s the movement of the truck. Either way, when he pulls into the Maple Bay Animal Adoption Center, she’s sound asleep until he scoops her up. She makes a few fussy whines as they make their way inside, which turns into scared shivers when the echoing barks of other dogs leaks into the room.

There’s a woman behind the counter that’s focused on some paperwork, round glasses slipping down her nose, that looks up when Robert approaches the desk. She blinks at him, black hair pulled into a messy bun, and the nametag reveals the reason he found them familiar.

“Damien?”

The name tag, of course, reads Danielle.

He blinks, then offers a sheepish smile. “A-ah, yes. I, um…” He seems  _ terribly _ embarrassed, fussing with his clothes, but Robert ignores it. It’s weird to see him without the makeup and the goth atmosphere and the colored contacts, but what Damien looks like right now doesn’t matter. The puppy does.

“I found her last night.”

Damien focused back on the subject at hand, clearing his throat and coming back to the moment. He watches as Robert pulls her from the nest of sheets, letting her stand on it instead of the cold counter. Her little nub of a tail tries to tuck between her legs, ears back as she shivers and presses away from Damien and against Robert’s chest.

“She was in a box,” he explains, voice dripping with disgust and hatred at whoever did it, “but I gave her some food and warmth and she seems okay.” She must not have been there for too long… He hadn’t noticed the box when he had walked to the bar. Considering he had lingered there for about four hours… No. He doesn’t even want to think about it. “You take in strays, right?”

Damien’s face falls as he offers a hand for the puppy to sniff, which she does. He scratches her ears, apparently gaining her trust. His face looks ready to cry. “We do, but we’re full right now… We’d have to transfer her to another shelter.” He bites his lip, shaking his head. “They’re not a no-kill like we are… We’d have to find her a foster, but that could take a while. And with how tiny she is, I’d hate to put her in with another dog. She looks so scared…”

Robert frowns, stroking her rear to try to coax her tail out from between her legs. “So what am I supposed to do?”

“I would take her in a heartbeat if Lucien wasn’t allergic,” he sighs, lips flicking up in a brief smile when she licks his hand. He glances up to Robert, unsure. “Would you be able to keep her? I can start contacting my fosters and see if any of them can take her. But you saved her life… You seem more than capable.”

“I gave her a bowl of cereal for food.”

He blinks, then laughs. “Okay, okay, maybe not… I can give you a list of puppy supplies--”

His stomach twists. “I don’t have any money.”

Damien doesn’t even hesitate, digging into the pocket of his khakis to produce his wallet. He reaches into it to grab a credit card, pushing it into Robert’s hand. “Use this. We have an account for all of the fosters to share. There’s plenty on there to get what you need, and once we find a foster, you can just pass on all of the supplies to them.”

He takes the card, feeling a bit bad, but knowing this is procedure. He’s essentially becoming a foster until a foster can take the puppy off his hands. Weird, but whatever. He’d rather do that then give her up to a shelter that might kill her just because they’re full of other poor animals.

He pockets the card and starts wrapping the puppy up again while Damien looks for the supply list. He finds it and provides directions to the nearest pet store, reaching to scratch her behind the ear one last time.

“You should name her. Nothing you’d get too attached to, though. We normally name strays after things. We have a dog named Forks right now we’re trying to get adopted. Maybe name her Box?”

He frowns, pocketing the list as well. “That’s like naming a person Coffin.”

Damien gives a wobbly smile, lips stretched a bit too thin. “Ah… Yes. Y-you’re right… Sorry.”

He shrugs it off and says goodbye, carrying her back to the truck and heading to the store. Thankfully it’s one of those places that let you take your animals in, so he tucks her in the spot where kids usually sit and props up the list next to her. There’s a lot on it, and as he stands in the vestibule, he feels a bit overwhelmed.

He’s never had a pet before. He bought a betta fish for Valerie when she was five, but it died after about a week. He hasn’t even had plants, and he’s suddenly crippled by the fact that he’s probably going to kill this dog on accident. No, he refuses to let that happen. She was already going to die from someone’s neglect. He won’t be the one to put her through that again.

There’s a few people milling about the store to make their purchases, but they don’t seem to pay any attention to the bundle of sheets and the list he has in his cart. He manages to find the dog food aisle and gets what the list says, same brand and everything, though the canned food instructions are less specific. So he’s standing there with a can of veal food in one hand and duck in the other when an employee finds him, plastic smile worn proudly.

“Hi! How can I help you today?” she greets, beaming despite the bags under her eyes and the flyaway hairs from her braid.

He turns to her, never liking it when employees interrupt him, but if he’s being honest… He  _ really _ needs her help. “What kind of canned food should I get for a puppy?”

She lights up, sincerely this time. “Oh, you have a new puppy?” He glances to the cart, where the puppy is sound asleep and buried under the blankets. She follows his gaze and catches sight of a tiny paw. The noise she makes is almost inhuman. “Oooh, can I pet him?”

“Her,” he corrects, but before she can get too into the puppy love, he redirects her attention. “Help me with this first.”

“Right, right! Sorry!”

She helps him pick out food and treats, but he insists he has it from there. She asks to pet the puppy again, but he rolls the cart away, listening to the little snores coming from the sheets as he weaves through the aisles. He grabs some toys, a plush little bed, and a value pack of puppy pads to line his floor. He debates getting a gate to keep her in one room, but decides against it. She hadn’t gone anywhere last night, anyway. He finds a collar and a leash, simple and red, the same color as the sheet she’s bundled in. The list has a few more things on it like a cage and a tether, but he decides against both because they sound a bit cruel. He heads to the cashier, and the beeping of the scanner wakes up the poor little girl from her nap. She seems scared, though, when the cashier asks to pet her, burrowing deeper into her sheets. He can’t blame her for being so scared. If someone packed him in a box and threw him on the road, he’d be a bit distrustful as well.

He’s pulling the credit card out when the cashier rallies the total to him, and he tries not to flinch at how high it all added up. But before he can swipe, she’s telling him something else.

“We’re running a promotion right now to help keep pets safe by printing free metal tags with any purchase of a collar. Would you like one?”

He doesn’t really see the point in getting one. This is just a temporary arrangement, after all. But he finds himself saying “sure” as he swipes, and she hands him a token for a tag-making machine near the door. She bags his purchases and wishes him a good day, quickly moving to the next in line as he pauses before the machine.

He inserts the tokens and selects the plain silver tag to start, the monitor coming to life with a touchscreen keyboard. The display prompts him for information, so he puts in his phone number, but not his address. The last thing is a name, and he stares at the blank space, racking his brain for something. He doesn’t want to name her Box, or something stupid like Damien suggested. Then again, he’s bad with names anyway; Marilyn had been the one that named Valerie and their short-lived betta fish. She was more creative than he was, always thinking one step further away from the box. Box. What a stupid name.

He glances to the puppy, who’s got her nose poked out so she can watch him. “What do you think? What’s a good name?”

She whines, shifting to poke her head out further. He rewards her with an itch under her chin. Her eyes close in the bliss of the scratches, little pink tongue poking out. God, she's fucking adorable. Cuter than Maxwell. Well, almost. She's not as fluffy.

He turns back to the machine and types in a name, waiting for it to print out. He takes the little ring to attach it to the collar, holding it in his palms with an emotional warmth washing over him. He snaps out of it after a moment, stepping out into the cold and loading everything into the truck. He gets in after putting the puppy in the passenger seat, but she fusses and whines until he lets her balance on his thigh, all swaddled up and comfortable. She's attached to him already. How will she do when he has to let her go? When it's time to get adopted? Damn it. He can't get attached so soon. He can't take care of himself, so how the hell is he supposed to take care of a dog? No, he has to get her adopted. Get her to a new home.

He sighs, patting her head before putting the truck into gear and driving away.

“Alright, Betsy. Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To send me your Dadsona, come to my [tumblr](https://degraded-psychotic.tumblr.com) and either send me an ask or a submission with the following filled out:
> 
> name: (please include a surname because I suck at those)  
> hair:  
> skin:  
> eyes:  
> clothing:  
> occupation:  
> does he like tom waits and shots?  
> leather jackets or weird tattoos?   
> whiskey or fruity drinks?  
> dogs or cats?
> 
> You can also send a short bio if you'd like, or answer most of the questions up top with a drawing. The winner will be chosen by random via a random number generator. Don't forget to include your name or your tumblr url so I can give you proper credit!
> 
> I will be taking Dadsona applications until NOVEMBER 15!!!   
> it's gonna be that late because I'm gonna be out of town on the 4th and you guys are gonna have to go that friday without an update. so sad :c but after that, i promise i shouldn't have to skip anymore fridays.


	8. Take it With Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been WAY too long!!!  
> This chapter was originally a lot longer to make up for my oopsie-hiatus, but there was a scene in it that just didn't make sense, so it's a little shorter. Also, I apologize if the editing isn't the best. I've been puppy sitting and it's super hard to concentrate w this lil pupper.
> 
> The [ song for this chapter. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dixxse4dpQ4&list=LLzazz1rOlwqNAiKAfQersrA&index=3)
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://degraded-psychotic.tumblr.com)!

 

Having a puppy, it turns out, is a lot of work.

Robert has essentially carpeted his entire bedroom and adjoining bathroom in puppy pads, spending most of his time in there with Betsy, who has developed a bad case of separation anxiety in the last twenty-four hours. Damien calls to check up a couple times that day, letting him know that he’s already alerted the fostering staff about Betsy. While he knows it’s for the best that she go to a home with someone that isn’t on a constant trip of self-destruction, he still finds a bitter taste in his mouth when he asks how soon a foster will be available and gets “soon” as his answer.

Damien also tells him about a free vet clinic that comes to the shelter once a month, and that given the way he found her, Robert should really have Betsy checked out. She could have fleas, worms, even small injuries that she’s unwilling to show. That’s enough to scare him into compliance to take her to the vet, but even as he sets a reminder on his phone, his life isn’t just going to stop because he has a puppy.

Brian calls him the next day about his new job (honestly he nearly drops his phone because he hadn’t expected to edge out any competition for the position) and tells him that he’ll start next week, after Brian gets an email set up for him and his name on payroll. He relays him the direct deposit information and a few more personal things before he hangs up, stares at his phone for a long moment, and scoops up Betsy in a Circle of Life pose.

“Holy fuck!”

He gets a confused whine, but her butt’s wiggling out of control at his contaigous excitement.

“I got a job! Holy fuck, Betsy!” He lowers her only to crush her to his chest, stopping when she yelps and pressing a kiss to her black and white face. “Ah, shit… I’ll be able to buy shit, pay bills-”

There’s a distant, muted  _ click _ followed by a stark silence as the light in his room suddenly goes out. Betsy whines, tucking against him in the sudden dark of the early night, and his happiness dies with the power.

Of course. He received a shut-off notice a few days ago, but of  _ course _ it would go off now.

He grumbles as he puts Betsy down on his bed, grabbing his phone from where he dropped it to use as a flashlight. “Well, looks like we’re roughin’ it.”

Of course this happens now. Whenever Robert seems to have something  _ good _ , it’s either ripped away or soured by something like this. Having a sexy, drop-dead gorgeous girlfriend? Sweet! Oh wait, she’s pregnant, we have to get married. Have a daughter? Cute. Too bad he’s a shit father. Move into the suburbs and finally get a “normal” life? Yeah right. Look where he is now. Even an attempted rebound to try to get his mind off of drugs or other self-destructive crutches has crashed and burned. His fling is his only friend’s husband. So now what does he have? A dog? Maybe Brian, but he’s a work connection now. A boss. He has Neil, has Vince, but all they are are funnels to get toxins in his body. So really, he just has Betsy… And even she might be leaving soon; as soon as Damien finds a foster home for her.

See, that’s the funny thing about depression. Something totally manageable, like a power outage, happens, and then suddenly he’s staring blankly at the screen of his phone and wondering if it’s even worth taking another breath.

He moves Betsy to the floor so she won’t try jumping off while he’s gone, grabbing his jacket and keys to head out to the bar.

Winter seems to really kick in during mid-January. The wind has picked up, biting through the cul-de-sac and carrying snow with it. He can spot the distant light of a salt truck making its way down the main road, and all thoughts of  _ walking _ to Jim and Kim’s immediately leave his head. He would much rather drive drunk than walk in this shit. He scrapes off a bit of ice large enough to peer through on his windshield before he climbs in, turning the ignition on a cold motor a couple times before it roars to life.

He has a garage built onto his house; something he should probably make use of sooner rather than later. But it’s full of boxes from the move; some full, but most empty. They had been too lazy to break them down, and opening the door to look at it all was enough to convince them to do it later. Later kept getting later, and they stopped opening that door altogether. And now, there isn’t really any good excuse for him not to clean up. He’ll have a job, pay his bills to get his power back on, and then…

And then he’ll have to move on.

It’s like he’s been floating since Marilyn’s death. Supporting himself on a raft made of drugs and booze, he’s been stranded so far offshore that he can’t see land. But there’s an island nearby, just large enough for him to dock and rest. A little glimmer of hope on the horizon. Instead of being excited, relieved,  _ thrilled _ as he was when Brian confirmed that he would be starting work soon… he’s scared. 

He’s scared, because whenever he has something, he loses it.

Then again, maybe it’s because he can’t hold onto anything tightly enough. He never treasured Marilyn enough. He never loved Valerie enough. He never worked hard enough, tried hard enough. He just lets things go the second he feels his grip starting to slip. He would rather throw it aside than struggle to carry the weight. Love always ends up hurting. Life always ends up, well, ending. There’s not much of a point to anything, once it’s in perspective. No one will remember him. No one will remember Valerie, Marilyn, or anyone else, for that matter. They’ll just rot underground. Their names might pop up when someone does some family tree decades down the road, or the lawn maintenance at the cemetery scratches their grave markers. Humans are flecks in the universe; even the famous ones. Eons from now, maybe no one will even remember Earth. The universe was born from nothing, and it will inevitably return to its state of nothingness in the end.

So why does the life of Robert Small matter?

He finds himself in the parking lot of Jim and Kim’s as this thought rolls itself over and over in his head. It’s far from a rare thought; he’s thought about it his whole life. He’s just been thinking about it even more ever since Marilyn’s death. Ever since his world flipped upside-down. And honestly, if Valerie has already declared him dead in her mind, what’s the hurt in it? It’s not like anyone would miss him. His relationship with Joseph is over, and the only friend he had in Mary is likely shattered beyond any feasible repair. There’s Brian, Damien, Neil… But they don’t know him that well. They’d get over him quick enough. He’s not that important of a person. The biggest bother would be to the person that has to clean up his dead body and the fact that Brian would have to hire someone else.

Wouldn’t it be beneficial to everyone in the long run if he just disappeared? If he up and died? The house could be sold to a young family that could make use of it. Neil wouldn’t have to worry about another drunk’s tab. He has government level life insurance that would at least cover the cost of what it takes to burn his corpse. He wouldn’t need a funeral; who would even come? Hell, just throw him in the dirt. Don’t even cremate him. Chop him up and use him as fertilizer. Make him into dog food. Feed Betsy with it.

Betsy.

He doesn’t want to put the poor pup back on the street. He can’t do that to her. So if he  _ is _ going to go through with the suicidal thoughts clinging to his skin like the stench of smoke, he needs to wait. He needs to wait until Damien finds a foster and he knows she’ll be in good care…

And that’s a bit fucked up, isn’t it? He cares more about how this fucking dog will survive without him than how his own daughter will. Though really… would Valerie even care? Shit, maybe Valerie wants a puppy. Two birds, one stone and all that.

God, he’s fucked up.

He spends almost twenty minutes in this internal debate, thoughts getting darker and darker until his legs finally kick him into the bar. He sinks into his usual spot, though he’s forgotten it’s a Friday; it’s  _ busy _ . Loud. There’s some sort of football game on tonight. Qualifiers for the Super Bowl, or something. He doesn’t care. He only cares that Neil is handing another patron sat at the bar his tab before he slides over. His dark eyes widen, however, pausing with his hand half extended towards the bottle of Jack.

“You look like shit.”

He rolls his shoulders in a shrug. “Smirnoff.”

His hand drops, and his look of teasing surprise turns to one of honest concern. “You drive?”

Wordlessly, he throws his keys onto the counter where they clatter against the old, polished wood. Neil takes them to hang on a board that says DRIVE SOBER and has the phone number for a local cab service. He returns with a shot glass filled with clear vodka.

“I know this is a dumb question, but do you wanna talk about it?”

Robert shotguns his shot and pushes the empty glass forward for a refill. He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at him. Just numbly stares at the TV as he feels the burn of vodka down his throat and into his stomach. It’s much more sour than whiskey; bitter, even. Like he’s drinking rubbing alcohol. But it’s what he needs. What he deserves. A reward and a punishment all in one.

Neil wordlessly refills him. Someone down the bar waves for him and he goes, though not before he shoots Robert a worried look that the man doesn’t even see.

He doesn’t know why he’s like this. He just got a new job, for fuck’s sake! But instead, he’s here, debating mortality and wondering how many shots until he’s dead on the dirty bar floor. He has a job and an honest opportunity to start turning his life around. Make money, pay off debts, gain some responsibility, grow as a fucking human being… Maybe he can even afford the therapy he obviously needs. The therapy that Marilyn and his family had been nagging him about for his entire goddamn life.

Or he can just die, and none of that matters at all anymore.

His fingers are still a bit numb from the cold when he wraps them around the cheap shot glass, though he doesn’t pick it up. He just holds it, looking down through the clear liquid to the distorted view of the bar counter beneath it.

Why is he even here? He knows by now that this won’t help. He’ll get drunk, he’ll ride that line of dead and alive for a while, and then he’ll snap out of it. He’ll be right back where he was. It’s a cycle; his entire life is a cycle. Drinking won’t make him feel better in the long run. He learned that much from AA meetings in Brooklyn. Hell, he doesn’t even have the money to afford this. It’s all on a tab, just adding more weight to the debt he’s got built up around him. He needs to stop, knows he does, but here he is. Robert has never had much of a backbone or will to do anything, anyway.

God, he’s fucking pathetic.

He’s still staring at his drink when he sees someone sit beside him from the corner of his eye. Yeah, it’s busy, but there’s more stools open rather than the one right next to him. It irritates him to have someone encroaching on his space when he’s clearly having a self-destructive breakdown, and when he lifts his eyes to the stranger, his face is pinched with annoyance.

The man looks completely unfazed, even going so far as to give a small, polite smile. “Robert Small?”

Robert’s expression falters a bit as his name is proposed in a question, though he doesn’t give an answer. He just squints at this guy, trying to remember if he knows him. He doesn’t, but apparently his confused expression answers for him, because this guy is suddenly offering him a hand to shake.

“Saul Graves. I got your picture in the woods a month ago.”

Oh, fuck him.

He glances down the bar at Neil, watching him chat up another patron as he mixes their drink. God, can’t a guy deliver a warning, at least? But Neil isn’t looking back at him, too involved in his conversation. So he looks back at Saul, his brief moment of anger at Neil having given him enough time to  _ not _ feel like he’s about to start crying.

“What, you want my autograph?”

“And a thumbprint,” Saul fires back, glancing down at the shot of Smirnoff before back up at Robert. “And some answers.”

“I was takin’ a hike, Jesus Christ.”

Saul grins, and Robert is starting to wonder if he’s a little less than sober. “Just call me Saul.”

He groans.

“Why did you break into the camera anyway?”

He shrugs, sipping at his shot. Ugh. It’s fucking nasty. He muscles through it. “Why’d you have one set up?”

“I hunt.”

Robert raises a brow at him from behind his shot glass. “On state park property when it’s closed for the season?”

Neil ghosts back and Saul orders a beer before he turns to answer that. “I think you know what I’m hunting.”

It takes him a moment longer than he wants it to. He just stares blankly, eyes squinted at the vague response. Deer? Birds? Foxes? What the hell could this guy be-- Ah. He gets it, then.

“So you know it’s there too.”

Saul gives the smallest of nods, sipping past the froth of his beer. Some of it sticks in his beard before the bubbles pop. “There’s people in this town that know about it. They either deny it or they’re obsessed with it.” He gestures at Robert with his beer. “I have a feeling you’re the obsessing one if you’re hiking the woods in the dead of winter.”

Robert has been called a lot of things. Crazy, stupid, reckless, irresponsible, stubborn… But not  _ obsessive _ . And honestly, it irritates him a bit. “What, you think I’m in a fucking cult or something?”

“With the hoods, it’s hard to identify anyone.”

He says it so casually that Robert takes it as a joke. He barks out a laugh before he downs the rest of his shot, hiding his shudder behind a clenched fist and tight jaw. Neil gives him a look, and he wordlessly tips his shot glass upside down. No more of that. Luckily Neil knows him well enough to replace the glass with one of whiskey, no ice. 

“Leather jacket’s good enough for me. I don’t need a hood.”

Saul hums, and suddenly the joking atmosphere is gone. He sets his beer down, regarding him for a long moment. “So you don’t know anything about the cult in Maple Bay?”

He almost chokes on his whiskey. “What, are they drawing pentagrams on pancakes? How bad could a Maple Bay cult be?”

“Bad.”

Ah, he remembers then. He remembers what the witch at the shop had told him about “them”. That he thought they had left the state, maybe the country. But they’re still here, according to Saul Graves, and they’re obsessed with whatever it is in the woods above town. Something dark, something bad. Something he wouldn’t talk about.

“...But I’m off duty,” Saul says after a moment, after a long sip of his beer. He glances at the TV when the bar suddenly erupts in cheers, followed by a fewer amount of boos. “It’s going to be an interesting Super Bowl this year. Neil puts on a damn good party here every year.”

Well, that’s one hell of a topic change. It’s come too late, though… He’s stuck on the train of thought of an actual  _ cult _ existing in Maple Bay, about the “them” he was warned about. That whatever is in those woods is being hunted by a local cop, that it’s dangerous, that it has the power to kill whoever it wants.

He downs his whiskey, tipping the glass over. “I gotta get goin’. Neil, gimme my keys.”

Neil shoots him a look. “After two shots and whiskey? You’re drunk.”

“Am not.”

He cocks a brow at him. “Stand up, then.”

He tries. He stumbles. Neil just gives him a look.

“I’ll take you home,” Saul offers, nodding to his beer. “Only my second. Where do you live?”

He huffs with his defeat, pulling his jacket on and his hat over his head. “In the cul-de-sac down the road. I can walk.”

“You just stumbled standing up from a bar stool,” Neil disagrees. Robert shoots him a look and he shrugs. “Just looking out for you. Do whatever.”

_ You need someone to tell you what to do. _

Saul doesn’t seem to notice the way Robert bristles. “I live there too. Which house?”

Robert’s house isn’t that unique. It’s certainly one of the smaller ones in the neighborhood, and the most notable thing about it is that it’s next door than the sprawling estate that is the Christiansen home. He tells Saul this much, getting an understanding nod in response. Neil walks away to deal with other customers again, leaving Saul to place cash under his glass and stand, pulling on his winter coat.

“Let’s get going, then?”

Saul’s car is a black BMW, a model newer than what Marilyn had and about twice as clean, as if it just rolled out of the lot. There’s a pine tree freshner hanging from the rearview mirror, and if it weren’t for that, Robert might feel a bit awkward stinking up his car with secondhand smoke from his jacket or the fact that he hasn’t showered in a few days too long. Instead, it’s the fact that the radio is set to NPR that makes him uncomfortable.

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those people that refuse to listen to music,” he deadpans, leaning back in the leather seat as Saul pulls out of the icy parking lot. He sends a farewell glance towards his truck as snow begins to fall, knowing he’s in for it in the morning when he has to shovel it out. But that’s for Sober, Tomorrow Robert to deal with.

Saul doesn’t answer other than reaching for the radio, hitting a preset station. The cab fills up with acoustic John Fogerty. It’s no Tom Waits, but he can deal with it. “So, how’s your hunting going?”

He shrugs, looking down at his hands. They’re calloused, scarred, and there’s a bandaid still wrapped around his pinky from splitting it open trying to put the finishing details on a bear he’s been whittling. In all honesty, he’s been thinking about what that witch said. Suicidal thoughts aside, he doesn’t want anyone else getting killed because he’s being stupid. Obsessed. He already has the heavy guilt of Marilyn, of possibly triggering Jasmine’s death, and he can’t bear to hold anymore on his shoulders. 

In fact, the more introspection he gives that guilt, the more he realized that this damn puppy is a means of forgiveness. If he can save and love a dog, surely he has the potential to do the same to a human. He can’t be totally useless, if he can do that much for an animal. He can’t be that bad of a person.

“I’m not doing it anymore.”

“Why not?”

He shrugs again, watching his scarred fingers curl into fists. The scar tissue turns white. “No point in it.”

He hums thoughtfully, turning into the cul-de-sac. “Fair enough. I only dabble in those woods… It’s kind of interesting. There’s a logical explanation for it all, too. I want to catch the kids who are killing deer, trespassing…” He glances over at Robert, briefly giving him a look. “Unless it’s you.”

“I’m not into animal maiming, thanks.”

“Good to know.”

He pulls up to the curb in front of Robert’s house, and as he does, his light beam over Joseph. He’s in a thick terrycloth robe, tossing a bag of trash into his can for tomorrow’s garbage men. He squints in the light before he waves, face as happy and peaceful as ever with his smile. Saul waves back, but it’s doubtful Joseph can even see him.

Robert groans, sinking down in his seat. As he does, his feet hit something on the floor, and he peeks down to see a police-issued handgun.

“Jesus, Saul.”

Saul glances over, laughing a bit. “I guess I forgot to take that back inside. This is your house though, right?”

He ignores the question, picking up the gun. He can feel Saul tense as he looks it over, but he sets it on the dashboard instead. “You ever kill anyone with that thing?”

Saul gives him a knowing smirk. “That’s classified.”

Well damn.

Robert looks back out of the windshield in time to see Joseph stepping back onto his porch and inside, and he takes that as his cue to get out. He thanks Saul for the ride and watches his lights pull away and then pull back in a few driveways away. He gets onto his porch, dark from lack of power to his porchlight, and it’s not until he digs into his pocket and only finds his pocket knife that he realizes his house keys were, in fact, on the same keyring as his truck keys. Hanging wonderfully on the peg board at Jim and Kim’s.

“Fuck me.”

If it wasn’t single digits of temperature outside, he would just sit on his porch until morning and then walk to Jim and Kim’s to get them. But it’s fucking cold and his fingers are already getting numb with it. Not to mention there’s a puppy in there that’s probably cold by now. He knows where his spare key is, of course; on the fucking kitchen counter, where Marilyn’s keys were tossed and never picked up again after the accident. That doesn’t really do him much good, obviously. So, he’s going to do what any grown man in this situation would do.

Break into his own house.

He knows now that Joseph is home, so he’s going to try to be discreet about it. He climbs the white picket fence of his backyard and goes to the back door, where the sliding glass is propped shut with a plank of wood on the inside. There’s another window that looks into the small nook of a dining room he has, then another, smaller one above the kitchen sink. Logic would dictate that he should go through the smaller window so he has less to repair, but Drunk Robert does not have logic.

He flips open his Swiss army knife to a pair of needlenose pliers, setting his sights on the joint between the panes of his sliding door. All he really manages is to tear out the sealant between them, though, and his cold fingers are having too hard of a time maneuvering his tool. So, again, instead of listening to logic, Robert Small grabs the largest rock in his garden area and throws it at the larger dining room window.

It works.

The glass buckles, though the rock bounces off of it. He’s loosened it enough to get his numb fingers in to tear a hole, climbing into the sound of Betsy barking upstairs. Good guard dog, but a Boston Terrier puppy doesn’t exactly sound threatening. He needs to get a pitbull.

Once he’s into his pitch black home, having tied his curtains around the window to try to block a draft, he climbs upstairs to find Betsy in the doorway of his bedroom, her growling and barking now turning to excited jumping and wiggling her butt so hard that she actually falls over onto his feet.

“Christ, you as drunk as I am?” he teases, scooping her up and holding her close. It’s still decently warm in his room, so he shuts the door and stuff the crack beneath it with clothes that littered the floor to prevent the cold from seeping in. But that’s just about all he has the energy to do, so he kicks off his snowy shoes blindly into the room and crawls into bed, holding Betsy to his chest as she licks his hands free of blood that glass cut from him.

He gets a call from the power company in the morning regarding his shut-off, and after bitching and yelling at them through a hangover, he actually gets them to turn it back on. They only give him another week, though, and that’s all he needs. He’ll have his first paycheck by then.

That’s really the most excitement he has for the weekend. Saturday night, he picks up his truck from Jim and Kim’s after a single glass of whiskey (but damn it, he wants more) and bitching to Neil about the phone call and the lack of any sort of warning preceding Saul actually finding him. But it’s whatever; Saul doesn’t come to his door with a warrant or anything, so he figures he’s in the clear with that.

Brian keeps in touch with him for what he’s expected to do on his first few days, coming over to help install a fax machine for him. Though after he sees the busted window in the kitchen, they find some duct tape and cardboard to cover it up until he can afford to replace it. Damien comes over to check on Betsy, letting Robert know that he’s still waiting on a foster. But the way he says it while Robert cradles the puppy to his chest makes it obvious that he knows Robert isn’t about to give her up.

Life actually goes well for the next few weeks. He starts working with Betsy playfully a coworker, and Brian is honestly surprised at how well it works out. He gets his work done fast while still being meticulous, and having something to do is even helping him out. He goes to the bar only once or twice a week, and Vince actually texts him to see if he’s still alive. He buys some marijuana, but nothing more, and finds that he only smokes it after a long day of work or if he’s waiting for more work to pile itself into his inbox.

He doesn’t go back to the woods.

It’s halfway through February and winter is still keeping the snow plows busy when Robert is lying in bed, Betsy napping on his chest and essentially trapping him there. He’s poking around on his phone, playing Hearts and cussing out the plays the computers keep making on him, when an alert pops up from his calendar. He frowns at it, shutting off the small tinkling alarm that goes off, swiping to view what it says.

VAL’S BIRTHDAY!

_ Shit _ .

The sound of the alarm had woken Betsy, and he nudges her off as he sits up. His eyes immediately land on the shut closet doors, knowing what he’s been putting off for months now. Betsy had already found the boxes under the bed and tried to chew them, so the door is bowed a bit with the extra stuff he’s had to cram in there. The things he keeps saying he’ll go through later, mail later, sort later…

He didn’t get Valerie anything for Christmas. The least he can do is give her back her mother on her birthday.

It’s something much easier said than done, of course. It takes him nearly ten minutes just to get out of bed and open the door, and another few minutes to collect himself enough to start pulling out boxes; both empty and full.

It’s a project that takes him the entire day. UHaul boxes are for Valerie, a collection of trash bags are for Goodwill. The other things, he’s keeping. Things like their photography equipment, photo albums (not of family; they never did that. It’s mostly pictures from their cryptid hunts.), postcards from the places they visited, paperwork like social security numbers and birth certificates… and a death certificate. It takes him the next three days to finally finish, and when he looks at the six boxes he set aside for Valerie, he realizes there’s no way in hell he’s going to shell out the money to ship them all.

So he loads up his truck.

He doesn’t want to leave Betsy alone, so Brian agrees to bring her over to his house. Her and Maxwell have met only once before, when Brian was taking him for a walk and Robert was working on the whole potty training thing, and the two get along thick as thieves. He’s not worried about her. He’s more worried about himself. About how Valerie will react. He should probably call ahead, but he’s willing to bet what money he’s got that she won’t answer. So he doesn’t call. He just goes.

He still has the address of the apartment she’s sharing with Rachel from the last text she ever sent him. He types it into his GPS and heads out after a shower and shaving the mess he’d gathered over winter.

It’s a long drive with too much time for him to think, so he blasts Tom Waits and rehearses what he’s going to say.

_ Hey, Val. Happy belated birthday and merry belated Christmas. Here’s six boxes of your mom’s stuff. See ya later. _

Ugh.

He still doesn’t really know what to say when he arrives in Brooklyn, when he finds the apartment building and a parking spot that’s probably not legal for him to use. He sits in his truck and tries to smooth out wrinkles in his sweater, fix his hair, spray on some extra deodorant from his glove box… And then he just looks at that glove box. At all the stickers stuck to it. It was from that time they took their bikes out. They were going way upstate, and to beat her boredom, Robert had bought her one of those sticker activity books… and then the stickers ended up on the inside of his car. There’s a couple more stuck to the floor mat and worn out from shoes, but the ones on the glove box are more preserved.

He just wants to see her as happy as she was that day for one more time.

It’s with a deep breath that he finally gets out of the truck and walks into the building, glancing at the apartment number on his phone until he finally climbs enough stairs to find it. He hesitates again, but shoves his phone away and knocks.

The few seconds it takes for someone to come to the door feels like an eternity.

It’s Rachel.

She’s in her pajamas at noon; a baggy shirt and baggy pants with her hair in a wild curtain around her face. She blinks at him, face going from surprised to confused to angry.

“Mr. Small? What the fuck’re you doin’ here?”

Well, that’s better than the greeting he had been expecting.

“I’m here to see Val. I got some of her mom’s stuff for her.”

She frowns, opening the door further so she can lean in the doorway. Her arms cross under her chest, head canting. “She isn’t here.”

Oh, great. “When will she be back?”

She laughs, though it’s hollow and bitter. “Uh, never? She moved out a month ago. We broke up.”

He just blinks at her, taking a moment to process that. “Wait… What? Do you know where she is?”

She shrugs, taking a step back and putting her hand on the door again. “No idea. None of my business. Maybe try talking to your own damn daughter.”

The door slams in his face.

He wants to knock again, demand an answer, but she already said she didn’t know, and he believes her. Why would she know where her ex-girlfriend went off to? Then again, that just leaves a million possibilities for where she could be. Apartments in Brooklyn aren’t cheap; even the cheap ones need someone with either a roommate or more than two jobs. Valerie couldn’t get one on her own, and he has no idea who is in her friend network that should could live with. Does she even have friends? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything about her.

He goes back to his truck to try calling her, but just as he expected, she doesn’t answer. He sends her texts, calls again, waits another fifteen minutes, calls again. Nothing. He has to wonder if she changed her phone number or something…

He’s killed an hour trying to reach her when there’s a knock at his window. Rachel is standing outside, bundled in a winter coat but otherwise still looking like she just woke up. He rolls down his window, and she beats him to speech.

“Look, I know her mom’s stuff was super important to her. I’ll take it. I’ll get a hold of her to come pick it up… ‘cause I know she probably won’t talk to you.”

He exhales, showing her his call history. “Yeah, I figured that.”

She gives him a bitter smile. “Yeah. We have a few mutual friends, if she won’t talk to me. I promise I’ll get the stuff to her.”

At this point, he doesn’t really have a choice but to trust her.

The two of them make a few trips to get everything into the small studio apartment, and Rachel promises again to get the boxes to the right place. Robert thanks her, apologizes for being a deadbeat dad, and requests that she pass along one message.

“Just tell Val I love her. Happy birthday, too, and all that.”

Rachel nods, standing in the doorway as Robert gets his shoes on. “Yeah, sure. Might sound weird coming from me, but I’ll pass it along. I’ll see if she’ll call ya.”

“Thanks, Rachel.”

She nods again, and her smile turns a little more genuine. “Y’know, Mr. Small… I guess you ain’t so bad.”

He scoffs a laugh. “Tell that to Val.”

“No problem. I’ll make sure to include it with the lovey dovey message.”

And so he goes back to Maple Bay, still feeling as shitty about his relationship (or lack thereof) with his daughter than he did when he left. At least he has Betsy to love on, and he takes advantage of that.

Valerie never gets back to him. At least, not until the end of March, when she texts him a simple “thanks for the stuff” and that’s it. She doesn’t answer his questions as to where she’s living, let alone return the “I love you” that he sent her. He mourns over that text at the bar, drinking until he has trouble walking home. But on the whole, he feels like he’s getting better.

Work keeps him busy, and when he’s not working, he simply rots his brain with TV or spends time with Betsy. She’s fully leash trained and potty trained by the time April rolls around, and she’s officially his once Damien confesses he pulled his offer to the fosters weeks ago. She’s healthy, happy, and that’s all any of them could ask for. The fact that Robert is spoiling her rotten is just a nice bonus.

The following spring and summer are perhaps the most stable times in Robert’s life. He makes money, has a job, has a dog to keep him in check… He makes an actual friend out of Neil when he comes over to help Robert clean his garage on a day in June. He gets closer with Brian too, as well as Mat once The Coffee Spoon opens its doors in July. He gets invited to a cookout at Brian’s and actually goes, meeting the rest of the cul-de-sac properly. Saul is there and they start chatting about the woods that Robert hasn’t set foot in for months, but end up having a serious discussion about firearms that scares Mat off to chat up Hugo and Richard instead. Vince and his father are there too, and the only ones missing are Joseph and Mary… 

Not that Robert really cares. He’s assumed they’re gone for good in his life.

Though, in the middle of eating a burger and comparing puppy pictures with Brian, Brian swipes to a text thread with Joseph to show him pictures of newborn twins. Blond and blue-eyed, one is a boy and the other a girl. Christie and Christopher. They share a little laugh over that, but seeing Joseph’s newborn children just makes him feel… disgusting. To know that these children were with Mary when he was with Joseph just makes him feel sick. Even  _ he _ wouldn’t sink down that low to cheat on someone pregnant. His  _ wife _ .

He wonders just how much Mary hates him.

The summer goes on without any contact from his neighbors, but he decides he’s alright with that. The less drama he has to deal with, the better. He just stays focused on himself, on Betsy, on getting by and paying off debt. He’s still drinking, still buys pot from Vince bi-weekly, but he feels… better. Lighter. He has less to worry about.

Until suddenly he has more.

Mat calls him one morning, when he’s in the middle of waiting for the microwave to finish making his eggs for him. He never calls; he’s a bit too anxious about phones, so he answers with an amused, “Where’s the fire?”

He should just start answering with a regular “hello”.

“Are you going to the funeral this weekend?”

He frowns, opening the microwave before the timer hits zero. “Uhhh, what funeral?”

“You didn’t hear?”

“Obviously not.”

“R-right, um…” There’s a bit of static as he takes a breath. “I feel like Brian should be the one telling you, but, uh… Dianne… died.”

He almost drops his eggs, and not just because they’re hot. “Brian’s wife?”

“Yeah… She was going for a jog in the woods and never came home, so he called the park to send out rangers, and…” There’s a pause, as if he doesn’t want to say it. “They said she was mauled by a bear.”

He does drop his eggs. Betsy startles, but she’s immediately there eating them off the ground. He has to pinch his phone between his ear and shoulder to get her away from it and try to clean up the cheap, broken bowl. “Wait,  _ what _ ?”

“I dunno the details, but I guess it was so bad that there’s no open casket viewing… They’re holding a service for her Friday. I was just wondering if, y’know, you wanted to carpool with me and Damien.”

“I… Yeah, yeah. I’ll carpool. Text me the time.”

“Sure. You okay? You sound, uh… weird.”

“I’m wrestling eggs off the floor.” Even though he’s not anymore. He’s just letting Betsy eat it. He sounds weird because he doesn’t know what to make of this news. “Thanks for the head’s up.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll text you later.”

“Thanks.”

He hangs up, staring out of his sliding door. He had it and the kitchen window fixed this past weekend, and the security he felt with proper, new glass has all but shattered. Pun not intended.

There are no bears in Maple Bay.

Black bears, maybe in northern Massachusetts, but black bears aren’t that vicious. They’re smaller, more scared than anything. He’s never heard of a black bear attacking a jogger unless provoked, and he likes to think that Diane had enough sense not to fuck with a bear. No, no… It wasn’t a bear. No way.

He practically runs upstairs to his bedroom, digging around until he finds the little baggie of Osha root he still has from the visit to the Wiccan shop. There’s not much in there, but he pockets it anyway. He knows he didn’t trigger the attack; he hasn’t been in those woods since January. Brian, he had told about the ghost, but Brian didn’t buy into it. So he couldn’t have done it… There’s no one else except for that cult that Saul--

Saul.

Saul is still hunting in the woods. Still setting up game cameras, working with the park rangers to try to catch whoever or  _ what _ ever is in those woods. Could he have been the one that disturbed it? That triggered it to kill?

He has Saul’s number in his phone from the Fourth of July cookout at Brian’s, and he sends him a quick text asking if he heard about Brian’s wife. He texts back almost instantly to say no, and he decides he’s not going to be the one to break that news. He just pockets his phone and runs a hand down his face.

Part of him wants to go to the woods. To demand what this thing’s problem is… but he’s taken the witch’s warning seriously. He doesn’t want to disturb it anymore than he or anyone else already has. Even if he does get his answers, what will he do then? It’s not like he can have it arrested, let alone  _ kill _ it. There’s no point. The pros don’t outweigh the cons, but barely even measure up to them.

So he keeps quiet about it.

He goes to the funeral, to see a closed casket covered in elegant summer flowers. It’s the first time he sees Brian cry, and Daisy just looks… numb from the whole thing. Carmensita is sitting next to her, talking to her now and again, but it doesn’t seem like it’s getting through to her.

Joseph and Mary are there too, with their three young children. He manages to dodge from Joseph’s gaze, but as he gets up to the podium to make a speech, Mary glances over the shoulder she’s holding Christine against and they make eye contact.

He can’t hold it. He looks down at the pamphlet the usher gave him instead.

She eventually has to leave the room when the infants begin to fuss, and now that Joseph is done with his speech, he follows her to help. Robert has half a mind to go out there, to get an apology to Mary and tell Joseph to fuck off, but this is hardly the time or place for it.

Once the funeral is over, Robert is the first to leave.

Robert’s work load basically disappears for the next few weeks as Brian takes time to mourn and shuts down the business. But by August, it’s back up and running, and his workload is twofold. It keeps him so busy that October is there before he knows it, and he’s stuck handing out candy at his doorstep with his leather jacket and his hair slicked back to pull off a Greaser outfit. He even buys Betsy a matching leather jacket from the pet store that she absolutely hates, but the neighborhood kids get a kick out of it.

He’s about out of candy and ready to call it a night when one more kid comes running up to his door. It’s Chris, dressed in the same theme as the other kids; monster. He’s some sort of Frankenstein monster, and he juts out his pumpkin-face bucket instead of saying “trick or treat” like a normal kid. At the end of the small walk that leads to his door is Mary, leaning against a double-wide stroller with the twins sound asleep. Her costume looks to be a half-assed Frankenstein’s wife. She sees him, gives him a thin smile, and he drops the rest of his candy into Chris’s bucket, clearly making his night.

“Thank you!”

He runs back to Mary and then on to Damien’s house, which is completely remade to a vampire lair for the holiday, but Mary stays.

“Hey, sailor.”

He gives a weak smile from his seat on the porch. “Hey. I’m sorry about--”

She holds up a hand. “Don’t. You didn’t know.”

“I should’ve.”

She shakes her head, looking down at Chris, who’s being  _ extremely _ cautious along Damien’s walkway, as if something is going to pop out at him. “I’ve had enough screaming and crying to last me. I don’t have the damn energy to be mad at you too.”

He feels himself relax. “So…?”

“So,” she sighs, standing up straighter, “I got a Frankenstein monster to catch. Text me. I need some relief from these two.”

“They look cute,” he offers.

She scoffs. “Yeah, you haven’t seen them when they shit their pants simultaneously.”

He pulls a face and she laughs.

“Yeah, same. I’ll see you around. Don’t be a stranger, stranger.”

He gives her a mock salute. “I’ll do my best.”

He does start texting her, and it’s mostly her sending him images of the twins being obnoxious, to which he replies with smug, semi-serious sympathies, and pictures of Betsy being adorable. They talk about going to Jim and Kim’s to properly meet up, but Mary is so busy with the kids that she hardly has any time to herself. So they text and call when they can, and honestly, that’s all he can ask for. He’s just happy that she’s talking to him. That their friendship can still be salvaged.

But when the holidays arrive, Mary is going with Joseph and the kids to her parent’s house in Illinois for Thanksgiving and Joseph’s family in Maine for Christmas. She texts less frequently then, but he at least gets a text from Val on Christmas Day. It’s nothing more than “merry Christmas”, but it’s more than he was expecting, and that’s honestly all he cares about. He texts her back and asks if she’d like a present, and the only reply he gets is a picture of her mother’s things arranged neatly in her room. It’s a small room, though the white brick reminds him of a dorm. Could she be…?

_ this is enough. thanks. _

He smiles, sending back a picture of Betsy.  _ Me and ur new sister love u. have a good night. _

_ u got a puppy?? _

_ yep. her name’s betsy. _

_ that name is dumb af _

_ ur mom named her _

_ i doubt it _

_ if u wanna meet her, u kno u can come over whenever _

_ i’m good _

_ sure? _

And that’s the end of the text chain. Still more than he expected, and he spends his Christmas night with a smile on his face.

Next thing he knows, it’s her birthday, and he sends her a happy birthday text and a picture of Betsy with a party hat on. He gets just an “lol” in reply, but every little bit of contact from Valerie, he treats like a treasure. And all in all… he feels like his life is finally worth something.

And then the following April, he gets a text from the last person he expected.

_ Hey neighbor! It’s been a while. We definitely have some things to talk about, but I know you probably don’t want to. Give me a call when you get this. It’s about the Dover Ghost. ~Joseph _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm extending the Dadsona submissions to December 1st! I only have one so far, so let's go!!
> 
> To send me your Dadsona, come to my [tumblr](https://degraded-psychotic.tumblr.com) and either send me an ask or a submission with the following filled out:
> 
> name: (please include a surname because I suck at those)  
> hair:  
> skin:  
> eyes:  
> clothing:  
> occupation:  
> does he like tom waits and shots?  
> leather jackets or weird tattoos?  
> whiskey or fruity drinks?  
> dogs or cats?
> 
> You can also send a short bio if you'd like, or answer most of the questions up top with a drawing. The winner will be chosen by random via a random number generator. Don't forget to include your name or your tumblr url so I can give you proper credit!


	9. Hell Broke Luce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! Essentially, the climax. This story is over halfway done! I will be changing the update days to Mondays though, in an effort to better coincide with my new work schedule!
> 
> **For this chapter, please be aware that there is some dubious consent, blood, demons, all that good shit.**
> 
>  
> 
> The [ song for this chapter. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Fju9o8BVJ8)
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://degraded-psychotic.tumblr.com)!

Joseph was right about one thing; Robert doesn’t want to talk about  _ anything _ with him. It’s been over a year, sure, but he’s still pissed off about the entire thing. Sure, it’s a little hypocritical for him to be pissed that Joseph was a married man, but it’s the circumstance around it all. The fact that Joseph is a pastor of all things, that Mary was pregnant, that he openly lied to him about being married… And the worst thing is that his excuse was that he didn’t think Robert would mind? It hurts even more knowing that Joseph was the first person (and, arguably, the only) that didn’t think he was fucking insane for believing in the Dover Ghost and the murders it likely committed. He’s still suspicious about the death of Brian’s wife, but hasn’t brought the subject up to anyone. After seeing how his questions about Jasmine's crash had bothered Mat, he doubts that it would go over well if he asked Brian about the circumstances of Dianne’s death. He had asked Saul, considering he was in the police force and all, but Saul hadn’t known anything about it. Robert had even gone to the woods himself, but it all it reminded him of was that night with Joseph when the doe was killed and they found the boulder.

Which brings him back to the reason he deletes that text and removes Joseph from his phone for good; something he’s been debating for too long now. He continues his week as usual, working and rotting his brain with TV. He takes Betsy to the pet store to spoil her with new toys, and he’s waiting in line with her sniffing at all of the treats in checkout when his phone buzzes again. He peeks at it, curious, and his jaw clenches when he sees the message.

_ It’s been a few days since I texted you. I really need to show you something. Give me a call? ~Joseph _

He shoves his phone in his pocket and pays for his purchase.

Friday night sees him at the bar, shooting back whiskey with Saul and laughing at shit that isn’t really funny. He’s pretty far gone, giggling into his drink as Saul regals him with a story of how he busted a teenager shoplifting a pair of shoes when suddenly thin arms are draping around his neck, a chin resting on his shoulder.

“Hey, sailor.”

He spins around so fast that he nearly falls off his stool, causing both Saul and Mary to laugh. She corrects him before sliding onto the stool beside him, Neil sliding her a whiskey with a grin.

“Long time no see,” he teases, leaning against the counter.

Mary only shrugs, downing her shot and almost moaning at the taste. “Tell me about it. I finally got a night to myself. What’ve I missed?” She holds out her glass for a refill, though her gaze centers on Saul. “And why are you toting Saul around like a piece of arm candy?”

Robert’s cheeks are already flushed from alcohol, but at that, he swears they get redder. He hadn’t realized that he had been practically laying against him this whole time. “Oh,yeah. He used to stalk me.”

Saul splutters a laugh, elbowing Robert in the ribs hard enough to make him flinch. “Was not.”

“How flattering,” Mary purrs, raising her glass in a toast to him. “Rather see you with him than the alternative.”

No one really understands who she’s talking about except herself and Robert. But Robert is a step ahead, fumbling for his phone while Mary asks Neil if she’s missed any juicy gossip. He finds the texts from Joseph and jams the phone in her free hand, watching as her brows furrow as she reads.

“Okay… And?”

Robert props his head up with his fist, trying to be casual about the fact that his brain is sloshing around in alcohol. “The hell’s he want?”

Mary shrugs, pushing his phone back. Saul leans over and snatches it to look, Robert groaning in disapproval. “How should I know? He hasn’t said anything about a Dover Ghost.”

Neil rolls his eyes. “And here I thought your ghost hunting was over,” he sighs, pouring the three of them another round before he heads off to tend to other patrons. Before Robert can grab his drink, Mary slides it on her other side, with her glass. 

She sighs, sipping at her whiskey and swirling the ice cubes around in it. “Well, I trust you around him. And vice-versa… We’ve had our fair share of yelling and crying over it, but I think he’s come around. The only problem, Robert, is that you’re exactly his type.”

He just blinks at her, not paying attention to the fact that Saul is scrolling through his text history with Joseph, brow raising further up his forehead as he goes.

“You’re a poor tortured soul that needs fixing,” she laments, the words tinted with a hint of bitterness. “I was like that, too. Now that I’m not, he lost interest… Then you moved in, all broken pieces that he wanted to glue back together… He gets off on it. That’s why he’s a youth pastor; if he wasn’t, he’d probably be trying to fuck the entire congregation.” She finishes her glass, chewing on the ice for a moment. “But he’s aware of it. I love him, he loves me, and all that sappy shit. We’re seeing a marriage counselor, and… I think we’ll be alright.” She smiles, the bitterness gone. It’s probably the first time he’s seen her smile like that. Soft, warm…  _ honest _ . “So if you wanna go talk to him and see this ghost stuff, it’s fine with me. Not that you need my permission to hang out with him, but just to help you out. He’s reaching out for a friendship now, I think.”

Saul nudges his phone back to him, face thoughtful. “So you’re going hunting again?”

He grumbles halfheartedly, rubbing his hand over his face. “I guess so.”

Despite the fact that he’s one drink away from blackout drunk, he manages to remember Mary’s words the next day when he’s nursing his hangover with a tall glass of water and a cup of instant oatmeal.

He’s been careful about the Dover Ghost ever since the witch warned him about the consequences. The consequences that seemed to come true… Yet the most flawed thing in that explanation is that no one was messing around in the woods at the time of Marilyn’s death… Were they? It’s been almost two years since then, but his hands are still empty of any answers. Maybe he was wrong all along; maybe her death really  _ was _ just an accident. But then what about the dream? The dark shadow he swore he saw when he woke up to find Jasmine had died? Then Dianne… He never had an inkling for her death. No dreams, no visions, no gut feelings. Even in the woods, when he had seen the crime scene taped off with yellow caution signs, he hadn’t felt anything unusual about it. So maybe she did get mauled by a bear. Maybe Marilyn and Jasmine did just get in accidents. Maybe it’s nothing.

But he finds himself taking a deep breath and texting Joseph back nearly two weeks after that first text.

_ what’s so important? _

He sets his phone aside to go feed Betsy and let her out for her morning pee, coming back to his phone about twenty minutes later to find that Joseph had replied almost instantly.

_ You’re going to have to see it to believe it. Are you busy today? _

He sighs, kicking back onto the couch. It’s the weekend, so he’s free as a bird, but there’s still a bit of hesitation in his gut. Should he really be doing this? Let alone if it’s safe for him to go after the Dover Ghost, but is it safe for him to be alone with Joseph? Can he trust himself with that?

_ sure _

Joseph must be sitting on his phone and waiting for him, because the response is rapid. 

_ Good to hear! I’ll be over to pick you up in fifteen. _

What the hell is he getting himself into?

He’s grumbling the entire time he gets dressed, pulling on his leather jacket to ward off the lingering spring chill. Jeans, t-shirt, jacket… and knives in his pockets. Yeah, that makes him feel safer. He’s finally tying up his shoes when there’s a knock at the door, and Betsy stands in the doorway from the living room and kitchen, back hunched and snarling.

He frowns at her, grabbing a toy to throw at her. “Hey, knock it off.”

She barks instead, jumping away from the toy and bolting upstairs. Robert just spends a moment looking after her, confused. She’s never barked, never growled when someone knocked. Not when Neil came over, not when Saul came knocking to walk with him to Brian’s New Year's party, not even when Brian or Damien came over to spoil her. No, she’s always been relatively quiet. Pretty shy, really.

That gut feeling that this is a bad idea has gotten a bit stronger.

He grabs his keys and answers the door to clasped hands a carefully constructed smile. He rolls his eyes as he locks up, pocketing his keys and stepping down the porch steps to look over at Joseph.

“So, what is it? What's so great?”

Joseph follows him, and he feels a tension grow in his shoulders as he steps to the curb, turning to look over as Joseph heads for his house. “Come in for a moment? I have some things to show you.”

Robert shrugs, following him. The only reason he’s going in is because both the van and Mary’s new (used) car are parked in the driveway. Inside, he hears the hum of the TV, glancing over to see Mary snoozing with Chris napping on her lap.

Joseph smiles warmly at the sight, quietly reaching for the remote so he can turn off the daily soap operas. “Let’s go upstairs,” he suggests, voice a whisper. “I’d hate to wake them.”

That does bring Robert a bit of comfort, soothing the tension in his shoulders. Mary is here, the kids are here… It’s fine. They’re friends, or whatever. Ghostbusters, maybe. “You got pictures or something?”

“Better,” he argues, leading them upstairs and into a neat office. There’s a desk stacked with books, a laptop balanced on top of them. A desktop is hooked up at a smaller, secondary desk, and bookshelves line the walls. Joseph fetches the laptop and gestures to a loveseat for Robert to sit, setting up the laptop on the coffee table in front of it.

“Want a drink?”

He shrugs. “This gonna take a while?”

He chuckles, hands clasped. “It may. Water? Tea?”

“Whiskey?”

His next laugh is a little more tense. “I’ll see what I can do. Go ahead and play the video while I’m gone.”

He watches Joseph step out of the room with muted footsteps, looking at the empty doorway for a moment before he turns back to the laptop. The screen is paused and black; the only thing on it being the play button. He adjusts the volume and presses the button, leaning back against the cushions as it plays.

It starts off dark, though it’s clear that it’s the woods. It must be a helmet camera, because after a brief moment, a flashlight beam enters the frame to light up his path. He’s stepping through underbrush, over roots tangled up from trees. It’s much denser than the part of the woods they camped in; dangerous, almost. And for a while, he has no idea what this video is showing. Joseph comes back with two glasses of water, sitting next to him and taking a drink of his own. Robert follows suit, though he nearly spits it out at what happens on screen.

The sure, steady footfalls suddenly falter, and the camera falls to the ground. The hat or helmet that it’s attached to rolls away, the camera landing on Joseph, who’s face-down on the ground. He reaches for his flashlight, sitting up, and then his face goes white. Holding the flashlight up, he brushes away a layer of foliage. The light reflects off of something metallic, and suddenly he lifts up a manhole cover. He reaches for the camera, which abruptly glitches with white noise, and just as he’s trying to aim it and the light down the hole, it goes out.

The video is over, and Robert stares at Joseph for an answer. His heart is hammering, hands shaking where he grips his glass.

“There wasn’t anything down there. It was about a ten foot hole, but… nothing much more than a dried up well, I don’t think. But at the bottom, there were… bones. Animals, like. Really small. Maybe some animals got stuck there, but still… Why is there a hole like that covered with a manhole in the middle of the woods?”

Robert blinks, head swirling. “Wait, you found a well full of bones?”

"Maybe not _full_ , but..." He nods, grabbing the computer to set it back to the part where the manhole comes up. “You can’t really see it here, but remember the symbol we found on the boulder? It was on this cover, but with six points instead of four.”

“The one on the boulder had six points, too.”

Joseph blinks, taking another sip. Robert unconsciously does the same, though he drains his glass. “Really? Then that means…”

Robert holds a hand up, his stomach flipping. Is this hangover and panic mixed together? Whatever it is, he feels the room tilt around him, and he makes a grab for the armrest of the loveseat, but--

Shit.

_ Shit _ .

His head hurts. Good  _ lord _ , it fucking hurts. It feels like he just went through with an icepick lobotomy or something. He doesn’t even open his eyes for the pain, and he moves to put a hand to his head-

He can’t move his hand.

He opens his eyes, muscles sore as he tries to move his hands again. But they’re tied down to the arms of a wooden chair with thick rope. It’s dark, or maybe it’s his sight, but after he blinks hard enough half a dozen times, things come into focus. There’s dim light, perhaps from candles, and that’s only the beginning of the oddities.

Joseph is kneeling on the floor in front of him, spraying something on a gauze bandage. He looks up when Robert groans, and the smile he shoots him is less than sane.

“Ah, good morning. You woke up a little earlier than I expected… Unclench your fist, please.”

He groans again, but does so. He looks down at his hand, though before he can understand more than the fact that it’s dark with blood and his jacket is gone, Joseph is wrapping the gauze around it. He curses at the sting of Neosporin, Joseph shushing him as he ties it tight.

“Shh, shh… Can’t have you getting infected.” He pats the back of his hand when the bandage is in place, earning a hiss of pain for the touch. “There. How are you feeling?”

He finds his voice, clearing his rough throat. Joseph stands, gathering a variety of things into a nondescript case. “Wh-what happened? What's going on?”

He hums, setting the box on an old wooden table next to a lit candelabra. The room they’re in is enormous, the ceiling curved and round. The walls and floor look to all be stone, as if they’re in some of cavern. There’s a heavy wooden set of double-doors at the opposite end, and there’s more to the room behind him that he can’t see. He can feel the musty air shifting around, telling him that the room must be bigger.

“The benzodiazepine hit you faster than I thought it would. You must have still had alcohol in your system. Mary mentioned she saw you at Jim and Kim's. You're a heavy drinker, aren't you?” He steps closer, hands clasped as he looks down at Robert. He’s in black priest robes, and as he looks down, he peels off blue nitrile gloves from his hands. “Sorry about that.”

“Benzo… what? What are you talking about?”

“Knockout drugs. Date-rape drugs.” He shrugs, reaching to begin untying the rope holding Robert down. “Whatever you want to call them.”

The second his arms are free, he makes to lash out, to hit him, to figure out what the  _ fuck _ is going on. But his body is weak, muscles won’t listen, and he only ends up weakly grabbing fistfuls of Joseph’s robes as he’s pulled to his feet.

“Oh, Robert. You’re still not eating much, are you? You’re lighter than you ought to be.” It’s scary how easily he moves Robert around, lifting him up and carrying him to the wall at the other end of the long, cavernous room. He doesn’t see the wall as he’s set on the floor in front of it, sagging back against the cold stone.

“What the fuck is going on?” he groans, trying to kick out at him as his arms are pulled over his head. Cold metal hooks around his wrists in shackles, and panic flares up even harsher. “Joseph! Joseph, what the fu--”

Hands now free, one of them comes to slap Robert hard across the face. His cheek cuts into his tooth, blood pooling in his mouth as his head whips to the side.

“Now, now. You told me that you didn’t want me meddling in your self-destructive habits, so…” He smiles, hands gently carressing the face he just hit. Robert tries to pull away, but then Joseph is kissing him, all warm lips and hot tongue. There's no way he can't taste Robert's blood, but Robert is still finding himself kissing him back, arching up towards him when he pulls away. He steps back, turning away to walk down to the door. He turns, and when he speaks, his voice bounces off the walls and ceiling in an echo. “So, I’m going to help. Just be silent. You can thank me later.”

“Is this some kind of turn-on for you?! Joseph!  _ Fuck _ , Joseph! Let me go!”

He’s ignored, Joseph opening the large doors. A crowd of black robes and hoods enter wielding candles, and Joseph merges somewhere in with them as they come closer. Robert can barely breathe for the panic, but his body won’t let him thrash. Won’t let him do much of  _ anything _ . Joseph poisoned his drink… And he’d been so stupid as to believe that everything was fine. That it was some sort of friendly offer…

“Joseph!”

One of the hooded figures steps forward to kneel in front of him, but he can’t see anything. They smell… odd. Herbal, floral, something that makes his nose wrinkle. They say something to him, something not in English, and then a hand presses hard and sudden against his chest.  It burns almost, and he finds enough strength to kick out at the hooded figure. He makes contact, but they don’t move. The hand on his chest pushes harder to pin him against the rough stone of the wall, their prayer or chant getting louder as he screams out at them.

“Don’t touch me! Fuckin’  _ stop _ ! Joseph! Joe--”

The person’s nails dig in, and he hears the fabric of his shirt tearing. Someone else steps closer to grab his bandaged hand, shooting pain down his arm and making him scream again. His throat hurts so bad he feels ready to vomit; his entire  _ body  _ hurts. He loses the strength to lash out, to even scream, and he loses track of time until it all stops. The chanting, the touching… They all step back, but Joseph steps forward. He kneels into Robert’s space, smooth hands cup his face, not seeming to worry about the blood on his lip or the fact that he’s breathing hard and heavy into his face.

“Robert, Robert, Robert… It’s okay, Robert. Calm down.”

He can’t calm down. Panic has its grip around him, tears running down his face as his helplessness sets in. “Please,  _ please _ , let me go…”

Joseph smiles, a sad, sympathetic thing. “In time, Robert, in time… You’re in no shape to leave right now.”

He dry heaves, slumping against Joseph’s shoulder as those arms wrap around him. “What the fuck was that? Joseph, what the  _ fuck _ …?” He doesn’t want to touch him, to be touched  _ by _ him… He doesn’t want to be here, but a gentle touch is what his panic needs. To calm his heart, to let him breathe…

“Shh, Robert… You remember the manhole I showed you? It leads down here… All of these tunnels, this cavern, it’s all underneath Maple Bay. Right now? We’re directly under the cul-de-sac. It was carved out years ago by these people, so they could control the ghost without being seen.” He takes a breath, a hand brushing at the back of his neck to ease out tension. “This ghost needs to feed… It feeds on death, sorrow, pain… And if no one feeds it, that’s when it happens. Jasmine, Dianne, Marilyn… They were taken because no one fed it. But now, we can feed it. We can keep it under control, and everything will go back to normal.” He leans back, wiping tears from his cheek with his thumb. “It felt your pain, your panic… and it fed, Robert. We tried to channel it to you, to force it into a smaller area. I… I admit, I don’t think that worked. But it still fed from you and you’re alright. I’ll let you rest, and then you’ll go home. Alright?”

He doesn’t understand this. Not a bit. Is he being told that these people, this  _ cult _ , just tried to make the Dover Ghost… possess him? Feed off of him, like some sort of spiritual vampire? He does feel exhausted, spent, and all he wants to do is sleep… But what is this? What is happening?

"You're alright," he soothes, petting at his hair. "You're alright, Robert." He kisses him again, rendering him breathless and weak. His eyes flutter shut as hands run down his body, over his ruined shirt and to the front of his pants. "I doubt you're in the mood for this," he whispers, lowering his head to nip and suckle at spots on his neck. Robert moans, head lolling to the side. His insides feel like they're an utter mess, and the only thing keeping him held together is Joseph. Is the hand unzipping his fly and diving into his pants. "Pleasure will help to dull the pain. Let me hold you again. Let me show you how much you mean to me, Robert. Let me take away the pain."

The doors creak open and Joseph abruptly stands, Robert’s body sagging against the chains as the support from that body and those hands are so cruelly removed. No one is in the doorway when it opens, and he can feel Joseph getting tense as he steps towards it. He grabs a knife from the table, one that Robert recognizes immediately as one of his carving knives. He wields it like a weapon, stepping out of the door and down a hallway he can’t see.

And as his footsteps fade, the door shifts and someone slips in, closing and locking the door behind themselves. They’re in black, hood concealing their face, and they hurry to the table. They search around before they grab a key, huffing in relief before they step over to Robert. He immediately shies away, pressing against the wall.

“Don’t fucking-”

A hand covers his, another hand raising, pushing back his hood.

It’s Saul.

“Quiet,” he hisses, looking over his shoulder before letting go of Robert’s mouth. “I’m getting you out of here. Can you move?”

Robert groans, leaning his head back as Saul reaches to unlock his wrists. “I don’t think so.”

Saul grins as he releases his wrists, hands landing in his lap. “Good thing I lift. C’mere.”

Robert has really had it with people carrying him, but he does admit that having Saul carry him is better than Joseph. Saul is a heavier build, more raw muscle with big bones rather than Joseph’s gym-bred muscle. Not to mention that Saul smells like cigarette smoke, and for some reason that comforts him.

Comforts him so much, in fact, that at some point he falls asleep.

When he wakes up this time, his head still hurts, and so does his hand, but he’s not chained down, at least. Just buckled in a car, head mashed between the seat belt and the window. There’s the low murmur of NPR in the car, the scent of a pine tree air freshener, and when he peeks his eyes open, he sees that he’s not in Saul’s BMW, but the back of a cop car.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he groans, sitting up and running his hand with his bandaged hand. “Why am I in the backseat?”

Saul meets his eyes briefly in the rearview mirror, and Robert takes a moment to admire that he’s in his police uniform. “You’re being brought in for questioning, but first of all, I’m taking you to the hospital.”

He groans louder, sitting up straighter. “No, no hospital. I feel fine.”

“Robert, you got drugged, and whatever he did to your hand, it’s bleeding through the gauze.”

He looks down at the hand that still pains him, only to find that Saul is right. It hurts so bad that he can’t move his thumb or forefinger, and he mutters a curse under his breath. He starts to unwind the gauze, but Saul slaps his hand against the plexiglass that separates them.

“Hey! Don’t touch it. It could be infected.”

“He put Neosporin shit on it.”

“Don’t take the gauze off, Robert, let me get you to the-”

“Stop the car!”

Maybe it’s just the shock of the yell, but Saul does it. He veers off the road and into the pebbles of the shoulder, skidding the car to a stop. He pushes it in park, turning around to look. “What?!”

Robert shows him the back of his hand, where a stick-and-poke tattoo is red and inflamed on the back of his palm on the tender spot between his thumb and finger. 

“That’s the symbol that was on the wall behind you.”

He stares, feeling himself grow faint. “Wh-what?”

“The wall you were chained on had that symbol painted on it.” He scowls, looking away. “At least I hope it was paint…”

The circle with spokes and the dot in the middle, now permanently on his skin in a room with the same thing painted on the wall, through a manhole with the symbol carved on it, in the woods where a giant boulder has the same mark.

“Take me home, Saul. I’ll answer any questions later, but for fuck’s sake, take me home.”

He sighs heavily, leaning back in his seat. “Only if you can walk.”

“Fine.”

The car sputters back onto the road, Robert’s eyes going back out the window. The sun is setting, the sky dark and purple with looming night… And none of this makes sense. Not a goddamn thing makes sense. He just got drugged, pulled underground by Joseph, who is apparently leader of a cult, or at least a member, given a tattoo, and then told that the Dover Ghost fed on him to avoid anyone being killed? Oh, and that they tried to get him possessed, which apparently failed.

“I need a fuckin’ drink, Saul.”

He chuckles, pulling into the cul-de-sac. “You got whiskey at home?”

“Hell yeah.” He sits up, peering out the window as they pull into his driveway. “Wait, where did you pick me up…? Joseph said we were under the cul-de-sac.”

“I don’t know if you’ve figured this out yet, but Joseph’s a liar. You were under the bay.”

He blinks, watching Saul get out to open the back door for him. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah. I saw Joseph leaving after putting you in his van. You seemed out of it… Maybe you had passed out by then. I was just getting ready for work, so I called and set after you. He took you under through a passageway in the woods. A passageway which, I’m pleased to announce, is being sealed off as we speak by the park rangers.”

He frowns, standing up with only a slight wobble. He swats Saul’s hands away when he offers help, confident he can walk just fine. “So the manhole bit was real? A dried up well?”

“Not a dried up well, no. An access tunnel to the caves. They used to be for maintenance crews during blizzards. You can get access to the entire city’s electric grid under there, but now it’s some cult hideout.” He exhales, leaning against the squad car. “I got a hell of a lot of paperwork to fill out. You free to come down to the station on Monday to answer some questions? I recommend for now that you write down what you can remember.”

He nods, though it’s in a daze. He feels like it’s just some bad dream. That he’ll wake up on his couch two years ago to Marilyn shaking him awake. “Yeah, I’ll… I’ll talk to you later.”

He nods, heading back for the driver’s side. “Call me if you need anything. Take care.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

His jacket may be gone, but his keys are still in his pocket. He unlocks his door and opens it to find Betsy running for him, per usual, but she skids to a stop about three feet away to arch her back and growl.

“Whoa, whoa… C’mon girl. It’s just me. I know, I probably smell like Joseph, huh?” He reaches for her to pet, to soothe, but she snaps her jaws at him before she runs away.

What the hell?

Maybe she’s just in a funk today… He’s not sure. Whatever it is, it’s a bit worrisome. Just the other day, he’d taken her to the pet store and she had been just fine. Now, she’s  _ angry _ at him? He doesn’t get it.

But he does what Saul suggests. He pours himself a tall glass of whiskey and grabs a pen and paper, scribbling down everything he can remember. His handwriting is awful, considering that the fresh tattoo is on his dominant hand and it’s still in pain. He pops some Advil before bed and re-wraps the spot in hopes that it will heal by morning, and that’s the end of his Saturday.

He has nightmares.

He hardly even sleeps. Betsy won’t come near him, and his nightmares are more like night terrors that he can’t remember much of. He just has the feeling that he’s being watched, being chased, and that’s all he can tell… But the nightmares continue for more than just a few nights. He gives Saul his report on what he remembers, takes care of his tattoo, but his sleep evades him. He wakes up screaming, sometimes thrashing so hard that he nearly falls out of bed. He’s irritable, angry, and Joseph nor Mary ever reach out to him. Not even when he skips his usual bar night to do research on demon possessions and rituals. 

He still can’t make any sense of it.

It isn’t until it’s been a month that it hits him. That Betsy starts barking at him when he comes back inside from checking the mail and he screams at her and knocks over the entryway coffee table in his anger. He watches her flee with her tiny tail between her legs, and he’s left heaving for air in the middle of his living room.

Something is wrong. 

He’s never this angry, especially at Betsy. He’s never this irritable, with this short of a fuse. He’s never this quick to scream and yell and lash out. His hand hurts. His head hurts.  _ Everything _ hurts.

Something is very, very wrong, and he's willing to bet it's Joseph's fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this seems a lil short? It's already packed with a bunch of shit, and I didn't wanna be throwing too much atcha.
> 
> **Send me your Dadsona by December 1st!**
> 
> To send me your Dadsona, come to my [tumblr](https://degraded-psychotic.tumblr.com) and either send me an ask or a submission with the following filled out:
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	10. Tango Til They're Sore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's uh... been a while, huh? Sorry about that. Life was kicking the shit out of me in a back alley.  
> I'm doing away with weekly updates, obviously. I'll try to update once a month, and for update alerts or word count progress, follow me on [tumblr](https://degraded-psychotic.tumblr.com).
> 
> [The song for this chapter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c2Tn8w1w2_Y)
> 
> (pro tip: the only thing that got me back was one of you commenting/reaching out to me via tumblr. I need that reassurance fam)
> 
> WARNING: there is suicide in this chapter but honestly, what's new.

The Christiansen house stands out like a sore thumb in this cul-de-sac. While it was true that the Harding family put their blood, sweat, and hard-working hands into building it, it was the Christiansen family that bought and developed it. That money, and the resulting house, was passed down, and now the biggest and most extravagant house on the block belongs to a humble youth pastor and his wino wife.

And it’s the last place Saul Graves wants to be right now.

But he’s already knocked, already got his badge ready to flash as if his outfit and face isn’t enough. They know he’s a cop, know he’s looking for information, and yet he doubts he’ll be asked inside to talk about what he needs to know. Not after what he put them through five weeks ago.

He had arrested Joseph under charges of kidnapping only minutes after delivering Robert home safe. He had played innocent so well that Saul had half a mind to play Bad Cop for once in his life, but his alibis checked out perfectly. Not even his phone had the texts that had lured Robert over in the first place.

He had pictures on his phone with time stamps. He had been at home with Mary, having a nap with the kids before they hilariously and horrifically tried to make some Pinterest recipe. Mary’s phone showed the same thing, and her story matched up perfectly. Joseph was not in the woods, nor anywhere outside of his home. His van was gone, yes, but he never even knew it had left the driveway. Joseph was completely innocent.

Something was very wrong.

Just as Saul raises his hand to knock against the pristine white door again, it opens to reveal Mary in a baggy Led Zepplin shirt and sweatpants. It is nine in the morning, of course, and she looks a bit irritated to be woken up.

Either that, or she’s just pissed at who’s on her doorstep.

“Good morning, Mary. I have a few--”

She cuts him off, closing the door just enough so that only half of her is visible. Her bedhead hair only adds to the wildly annoyed look in her eyes. “You’ve asked enough, Saul. Get the fuck off my porch.”

He takes a breath. He had expected this. He releases it in a bit of a sigh, tucking his ID badge away and pulling out a laminated picture from his pocket. “It’s not about that. You know Vincent Sipes?”

Mary had just about been ready to slam the door in Saul’s face, but her anger lets up enough to show confusion. “The neighbor kid? Yeah, duh.” She’s not going to say that she’s bought weed off the kid before, but hey. He was saving for college. Or something like that.

“He’s missing.”

She blinks, glances next door, then finds her honey eyes back on Saul. “Since when?”

He tucks the photo away, knowing Mary already knows the kid anyway. He shifts his weight, hoping the subtle body language will get him inside. He just spent over an hour standing awkwardly in the Sipes’ living room while Kevin and his wife, Tracy, plead for his help. “They officially reported it at five this morning. We’ve got patrol cars out, but I figured I’d go door-to-door.”

She hums thoughtfully, glancing over at the smaller, neighboring house before she shrugs. “Haven’t seen him. Joe’s got youth group tonight. I’ll tell him to ask the kids.”

Saul immediately perks up. “He goes to youth group?” Who would have thought. According to his parents, he was a ‘trouble child’. According to the kid’s record, he was a ‘delinquent’ that had been in juvie from thirteen til he was fifteen for underage drinking and drug possession. Tomato, to-mah-to.

Mary just shrugs again. “Maybe.”

He can tell he’s rapidly losing his welcome. “Is Joseph available now?”

“No.” The door slams in his face.

Honestly, that still went better than he expected.

He sighs as he steps off the porch, crossing off the Christiansens for their lack of information. Robert’s house is next, and the stark contrast of the previous house clashes almost audibly with the drawn curtains and overgrown grass.

Saul steps onto the porch almost hesitantly; he hasn’t seen Robert in a few weeks, since he gave him the news that Joseph was completely clear and either the Dover Ghost is a Joseph Christiansen clone or they were both seeing something that wasn’t there. He’s not sure which is most probable.

Either way, Robert has been so far under his radar that  _ no one _ has seen him. Not even Brian, who has a huge workload on his plate to help the Coffee Spoon get off the ground. Robert has been submitting his work without a snag though, so there really is no reason to check up on his employee. Still, something about it just doesn’t sit right with Saul. 

He knocks regardless, remembering Robert mentioning that his doorbell doesn’t work. He hears Betsy start to bark and run for the door, little claws scraping against the hardwood, but that is all he hears. He knocks again, knowing that at this hour, Robert probably isn’t awake… but that only makes Betsy bark more, whining when she barks herself hoarse. Robert's truck isn’t in the driveway, but since Saul and Neil helped him clean up the garage, he’s been parking inside more often, so it’s not a sign that he’s not home. If only the curtains weren’t drawn tight and Betsy could bark louder...

Robert must be a deeper sleeper than he thought.

He decides against knocking again or calling, knowing that if Betsy didn’t wake him up, he’s either not home or so hungover he can’t move. While it is important that he spread the word of Vince’s disappearance, he supposes it can wait. After all, his partner is busy on the opposite side of the cul-de-sac, hanging up posters.

He’ll try again later.

Damien is already awake, dressed to the nines as usual. He hasn’t seen anything, though he vows he’ll spread the news as wide as he can. He even offers to help look, but Saul tells him to stay home and keep an eye out. If the police need help, a neighborhood search party will be properly formed. Next to Damien is Hugo and Richard, and he gets the former when he knocks. Hugo only sighs and shakes his head, offering information that Vince is so far behind on homework that he has no choice but to repeat the eleventh grade. Perhaps that was his motivation for running away? High school kids don’t think straight that often, so Saul jots it down regardless. It turns out that that’s the best information he and his partner get, so to say they’re empty-handed when they return to the department isn’t much of an understatement.

The department itself is in a weird state of slow chaos. Maple Bay is a small town, so everyone at the department knows someone that knows the Sipes family, and phones are ringing with tips or questions that either result in something useful or baseless gossip. Saul and his partner go back to their respectful cubicles, and as soon as he logs the possible lead on the mass computer file of Vincent Sipes that the station is making, he’s pulling papers out of his desk.

On top is a noted detail in sloppy, rushed handwriting recalling everything that happened to Robert Small on April fifteenth. It starts from that morning, when he was exchanging texts with Joseph, to the next morning, when the bleeding and itching finally stopped on his tattoo for the most part. Underneath is a piece of thick, high-quality sketch paper with the original depiction from a sketch artist. It’s a face of one of the cult members that Saul had seen that night; the one he had disarmed and taken the robe from. A short, brief description is next to it, putting the man in his mid- to late-forties, Caucasian, five-ten. After that is a notebook worn from the elements, the interior of which is a mess of notes from Saul’s own Dover Ghost research, which was starting to turn to cult research.

He takes the sketch out and puts the rest away, pulling up a facial recognition database that he has bookmarked. He’s already scanned the sketch into his computer, so he uploads it and waits for the algorithm to do its thing.

“Found ‘im yet?”

He’s hardly startled, only giving a grunt of acknowledgement when his cubicle neighbor peeks around at him. She doesn’t know the specifics of why he’s trying to find this person, but it’s been entertaining to watch him try. Well,  _ was _ entertaining. Now it’s getting a bit worrisome.

“Seriously, if this guy cut you off in traffic or something, it’s not worth it. We got another missing person case, and he’s from  _ your _ neighborhood. Shouldn’t you be rallying the neighborhood search party?”

“Not yet,” he says shortly, irritated when the screen shows him some matches in the tri-county area, none of which are who he’s looking for. He sets the location to the entire state of Massachusetts and starts again. “He hasn’t even been missing for twenty-four hours yet. He’s probably at a friend’s house.”

The officer rolls her eyes, snatching the sketch from Saul’s slack hands. She earns a glare for it, but cuts him off. “You know Charlie in forensics? He’s good at photoshopping these so they look more realistic. You might get a better match that way. I don’t think he has any work right now.” She offers the sketch back, and Saul takes it gently, as if it's made of glass.

“It’s not an official case, Tara. I can’t just-”

She crosses her arms, arching a brow and cutting him off with just a look.

There’s a pause.

“...Which room is Charlie in?”

Charlie must really be bored, because when Saul steps into the forensic imaging office, he snaps back to attention and pretends he wasn’t photoshopping family photos to make himself thinner. Saul shows him the sketch and Charlie confirms that he can do it, but as he takes the sketch, he gives it a curious look.

“What case is this for?”

Saul knows that Charlie is the kind of worker that won’t run and tell a superior if he’s asked to do work that isn’t strictly work-related. After all, the guy’s sitting here going through his own personal photo albums from Christmas. So he could tell him the truth, but he wants a sense of urgency attached to this. Honestly, he doesn’t know why he hadn’t thought of using Charlie’s skills earlier.

“For that missing kid. Vince.”

Charlie’s eyes widen. “Is this guy a suspect?”

“I think so.”

The urgency is there, and Charlie promises that he can have something done by tomorrow at the end of the day. It takes time, he explains, to sift through stock images and find the  _ exact _ piece of a face that he’s looking for. That’s good enough for Saul, and he spends his time until lunch actually working on trying to figure out where Vince went.

Lunch rolls around and Tara tries to tempt him with pizza, but he never eats at the office. He hops in his cruiser and takes off to Jim and Kim’s, planning on getting some work done while eating off of Neil’s new burger menu.

The bar isn’t very busy at this time of day, but summer is here and tourist season is slowly kicking off. There’s a couple in the back looking at a whale watching pamphlet over their food and beer, and other than a few other workers on their daily lunch breaks, it’s dead in here.

Neil waves when he walks in and picks a booth facing the door, and it only takes the bartender a moment to come over with a diet Pepsi in an iced glass. 

“Eating here?”

Saul nods, focused on the laminated menu. It’s clean and new with the seasonal additions, standing out in the otherwise dingy bar. He makes a face, pushing the menu towards Neil. “Surprise me. I want one of those new burgers.”

Neil chuckles, glancing at the menu to pick. “Alright. Medium rare?”

“Yep.”

Neil walks behind the counter and into the door that leads to the kitchen, his words to the cook muffled behind the classic rock playing through the speakers. A baseball game is on, along with a NASCAR race, but Saul just sips at his pop and taps at his phone.

So far, there still aren’t any tips on Vince. He’s not too worried, usually isn’t until it hits twenty-four hours. Though, missing person reports aren’t that unusual at the department anyway. Most people are found perfectly safe and sound; they had gone hiking, gone to a friend’s house, or just gone on a drive. Kids are dangerous, though. Maple Bay is a small town, and the childish dream of running away to the Big City is all too real. He thought a seventeen year old kid was smarter than that, but what did he know? Maybe he was running off with a girlfriend or something. His parents sure as hell didn’t know much about him. Saul can still remember the look of pure horror on Tracy’s face when he told her that her son’s disappearance could be drug related.

_ “But he’s given that up!” _

But she apparently didn’t know what pot smelled like, because Vincent’s room  _ rank _ of it. Not to mention everything the forensics team found just a couple hours ago; wads of cash, portioned baggies of pot, molly, and even cocaine. Once found, Vince would be looking at more than just a short term in juvie.

It wasn’t just a missing persons case anymore. Vince was wanted.

Saul knew from more than a few drunk conversations in this very bar with Mary and Robert that both of them smoked marijuana. Robert did more than just that, but Mary always cut him off and changed the subject before he could confess. Considering how small of a town Maple Bay is, it’s easy to assume and conclude that Vincent was dealing to them. The things that forensics found in Vince’s room were probably for them. Unfortunately, that meant that Mary and Robert could get roped into this on drug charges, but when it comes to his job, Saul can’t really bend the law for friends. That rule pretty much only covers speeding tickets. Possession of marijuana? Not so much.

Then again, legalization of the substance will be on the ballot in the fall. So maybe it’s going to amount to nothing.

Saul opens up his text thread with Robert, which only makes him worry. All of the texts are from him without a single response from Robert. It’s mostly variations of “are you okay?” and nothing in return. He sends another one now, a simple “You up?” before he looks up to see Neil bringing him a refill of Pepsi.

“Hey Neil, you got a sec?”

He tops him off with the pitcher before he glances around to check the other tables. The tourist couple is still planning their day, and the other barflies don’t seem to need any help. He turns back to Saul, nodding at him. “Yeah, guess I do. What’s up?”

Perhaps it’s instinct from being in the police force for so long, but Saul gets straight to the point. “Have you heard anything from Robert?”

Neil cradles the pitcher in his hands, looking at the door as if he expects Robert to walk right in. But after a moment of thinking, he gives a slow shake of his head. “No, actually. He hasn’t been in in weeks. A bit over a month, I think.” His brows furrow in worry over his regular. He still owes a tab, damn it! He looks back at Saul, head tilting a fraction. “Why? Something wrong?”

Yes. Something is wrong, especially if Robert hasn’t been at the bar. He’s an alcoholic, whether he knows it or not. Sure, his trash can has been setting out on appropriate days and his mail isn’t overflowing, but any other signs of the man even being alive are simply nonexistent. He wonders if Robert has worked himself into another detached bout of depression, something that often plagued him in the winter or around the anniversary of Marilyn’s death, but that doesn’t seem right. During those times, not even his trash bin is out and Brian complains that the work is backing up. So yes, something is wrong.

He exhales, wrapping his hand around his icy cup and smearing the condensation against his palm. He spares his phone a glance to see that Robert hasn’t responded. That he won’t respond. Why isn’t he responding? 

“Just worried is all.”

The bartender nods in agreement, taking a breath as he starts to turn away. “I wouldn’t worry too much. He’s a lone wolf sorta guy. I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”

Neil heads off to deal with the tourist’s tab and Saul knows that he has a point. It isn’t uncommon for Robert to vanish for days, even weeks. Saul knows what mental illness looks like, and Robert’s isolating episodes are a dead giveaway to whatever he has plaguing his mind. Robert needs professional psychiatric help, but Saul isn’t qualified to give it, and he doubts that he’s reached that level of friendship where such a topic is welcome. Robert must know he needs help, though; he carries himself like a man that has tried too long to walk alongside his demons, but his pride is too large to learn how to tame them. Perhaps he fears that if he kills the darkness in his mind, there will be nothing left.

But no, Saul shouldn’t worry. Robert will isolate for a few more days, then he’ll show up at his usual spot at the bar like nothing happened.

He can’t help but worry, though, when he thinks of what led to Robert’s radio silence. The last he had seen or heard from Robert was on April eighteenth, three days after the incident, when Saul had told him that Joseph and Mary were completely innocent and that, by all accounts, it didn’t make any fucking sense. Robert had gone through some pretty intense trauma, but both he and Saul know that if he were to go to a psychiatrist to discuss and cope, he would be sent straight to a mental facility with no hope of discharge. The only person he can really talk to about it without fear of being declared clinically insane is Saul, and though the officer has tried reaching out to him on a daily basis, he hasn’t opened up. If anything, his steel defenses have gotten tougher.

But why? 

He’s read Robert’s testimony of that day over and over again, to the point that he could memorize it. While he doesn’t think any of it is a lie, he has to wonder if there’s something else that happened. Something that Robert left out.

Saul leaves Jim and Kim’s after he eats and gives a good review on the new burgers, heading to the school to check with the deputy on Vincent’s whereabouts. He hasn’t been found yet, but considering that his charges have gone past a simple interim care to actual legal charges, the entire force is on the lookout. Neighboring towns have been told to keep an eye out too, and while Vince isn’t the owner of a car, his parents confessed he did have a moped. Luckily, something that will stick out.

But the day goes without incident, without any reports of sightings. Saul tries Robert’s house again, but just gets Betsy barking in reply. He stays late at the office just to keep watch on the phones, but he’s really peeking in on Charlie every few minutes. Once the man leaves, Saul peeks at the half-finished image and feels goosebumps rise on his skin.

It’s already looking a bit too real.

He sends a text to his wife, telling her and Barry to have dinner without him. It’s nothing unusual, but he still gets a half-hearted “K” in response. It always makes him feel a bit guilty, but as he pulls into the entrance of the Maple Bay Recreational Area, he remembers why he has to do this.

He follows a path created by workers and ATVs to find the manhole, the heavy iron now cemented into the ground. Pulling a flashlight from his coat, he shines it against the cover, finding the six-pointed sun symbol carved into it. It’s scratched into the metal, likely from a knife, and now dirt and loose cement finds itself embedded in the scratches. MAPLE BAY ELECTRIC is also branded around the perimeter, rusted and a bit weathered with age. But through the holes in the cover, there’s nothing but hard, quick-set concrete, right up to the rim. The manhole cover won’t even budge when he kicks it, and he lets out a satisfied hum at the work.

And then he walks to a nearby tree, where a hunting camera is strapped.

He opens the bottom by cracking some half-assed welding; an illusion to prevent anyone to breaking into it after Robert had broken into his locked camera years ago. There are three USB sticks jammed into it, and he pulls out all three and replaces them with blank memory sticks from his pockets before snapping the fake bottom back on. 

He gets home just before dark to find Barry in the kitchen, making faces at his math homework. His wife is in the living room watching recorded episodes of the Bachelorette, and both men in the house know better than to be interrupting her.

“What’s up?” Saul greets, removing his coat to hang by the door as he heads for the fridge in search of leftovers. The house still smells like pasta, and he’s not surprised when he finds a foil-wrapped plate of spaghetti waiting for him.

“The ceiling,” Barry answers in deadpan, not even looking up from his work as his pencil bounces against the book. What kind of third grader has a textbook that big anyway?

“Ha ha,” he matches in kind, sticking his plate in the microwave and hitting the timer. He balls up the foil to toss into the trash, leaning over his son’s shoulder to look at the work. “A multiplication crossword…?” God, he really doesn’t get the current education system.

Barry just hums, pushing the packet over to his dad. His math textbook is opened to a multiplication table, but the numbers on the crossword are higher than what the table goes to. He’s got half of it filled out, a scrap paper full of long multiplication. “I get it, I just…” He shrugs, his childish pride still strong. He’s only in third grade, sure, but his math skills are so sharp that he’s taking a fifth grade math class. “It’s stupid.”

Saul takes his pencil from his lax fingers, erasing one of the wrong answers. He pulls the scrap paper under his nose, a little “aha” coming out as he finds the work. He turns it around, showing his son. “Here. You forgot to carry the two here. It should be sixty-four, not forty-four.”

Barry groans, snatches his pencil, and gets back to work.

Saul keeps helping over lukewarm spaghetti until Barry’s work is done, the both of them deciding to wash the dishes in the sink. They talk about school, about how boring Saul’s day was (he knows his work is Serious Adult Stuff; Barry doesn’t need to know details), and after their hands are wrinkly from the hot water, Saul takes him to bed before peeking into the living room on his wife.

“Hey babe.”

Selena looks up from her book, offering a soft smile. Her show is over, the TV off, and she’s curled on the couch with a mostly-empty glass of wine and her cheap drug store novel. “Hey,” she greets softly, dog-earing her page before setting the book aside. She pats the couch next to her, and Saul takes the spot with a heavy sigh.

“You find him?”

“No,” he sighs, welcoming her to his chest and wrapping an arm around her shoulder. She’s tired just as much as he is, maybe more. Nursing is a hard job. “Tomorrow morning, they’re going to set up a proper search party.”

“I got tomorrow off,” she says lightly, nuzzling against him as her eyes close. “I’ll head it off.”

Of course she will. She’s got the same sense of duty as he does. “It’s more than a missing kid now. They found drug paraphernalia in his room. They think he’s a dealer.”

There’s a moment of pause, and then she lets out a bitter exhale of a laugh. “Why am I not surprised? I knew he always smelled like pot. Moreso than other teenagers, at least.”

“Yup. So there’s gonna be a bunch of officers and the deputy on the search party, if you do find him. They didn’t want to have a search party at all, but Tracy gave ‘em a hard time about it, I guess.” He sighs, relaxing deeper into the couch. He knows he should stop the conversation there, maybe convince her to go to bed, but… “I haven’t looked at the trail camera pictures yet.” He pulls the jump drives from his pocket as Selena sits up, holding them on his palm for her to see. “Do you wanna look with me?”

He knows it’s a tender thing, bringing up anything to do with the Dover Ghost. Saul isn’t anything short of obsessed, and after Jazmin’s death, Selena’s sister, she’s been hesitant about it. Even now, her expression turns to one of indifference, though she doesn’t look at the offered hand.

“...I’m going to bed, Saul.”

He lets her go with a silent apology in the form of a kiss, and once she’s gone, he takes out his laptop to plug in the USB drives from the camera. He pulls his phone out, wondering if he should call Robert, but one look at their text history reminds him that he likely won’t answer. 

So he doesn’t bother.

The pictures he’s gotten are about what he expects. A week or two ago, there are pictures of the workers mixing and pouring buckets of cement around the entrance of the manhole. They block off the hole with wood before piling the cement on top, have their lunch, and then they’re gone. The other pictures are of curious squirrels, a fox, a couple deer passing by… Nothing unusual whatsoever. Absolutely nothing.

He supposes that’s a good thing, but he’s still disappointed.

The next day, Saul wakes up earlier than usual to get Barry off to school. Selena sleeps in until Tracy and the deputy arrive to set up the search party, a gathering of umbrellas in the morning May shower. Saul himself heads to the office, only to be greeted by a manilla folder on his desk with a sticky note on it.

_ Couldn’t sleep, so I worked on this last night. Hope it’s good! I emailed you a copy too. -Charlie _

It’s still too early for Tara or any of the others to be here yet, so he eagerly opens the folder. Inside is a printed, glossy image of what Charlie was able to put together from a sketch and a simple description. And he swears his heart stops for a moment, because it’s  _ dead on _ .

He buckles down for the day like that, adding the photoshopped image to the folder he’s making on this case. He finds the email Charlie sent him, downloads the image, and then uploads it to tri-county facial recognition. The added details mean that it takes longer, however, and Saul makes breakroom coffee and sends Robert another “you up?” message that he doesn’t get a response to.

His computer beeps to signal the end of the search, and it’s almost comical how quickly he sits down and hunches towards his monitor.

The face registered in a couple felony cases, but a glance at those faces is proof enough that it isn’t who he’s looking for. It’s a poster image that matches next, a missing persons report. Jonathan Wardell, forty-eight, five-ten, caucasian. Last seen going to work at a local autobody repair. Resident of Maple Bay. Missing persons report filed six years ago, no updates in eighteen months.

It’s him.

He immediately spends the rest of the hours until lunch pulling together anything and everything he can about this guy, thankful that apparently his nosy cubicle neighbor is one of the few office workers on site with the search party. She’ll probably rub it in tomorrow that she got to go on the field, put he’s too preoccupied with his own work to even care about that.

Jonathan Wardell’s wife took her life two years ago, four years after his disappearance, and the two of them had one child. Said child is now twenty-three, living at and attending Boston University. He gets their contact information from their FAFSA file and tucks it away, standing up to go get something for lunch when the phone at his desk rings.

He frowns when the caller ID puts it as the deputy that’s been assigned to Vincent’s case, a little surprised if they’ve already found him. And if they did find him, why are calling him and not the chief detective that’s been put on the case?

“Yes, Sir?”

“We found Vincent Sipes.”

Saul doesn’t say anything for a moment, sensing the hesitation on the deputy’s end. When he speaks again, his voice drops the professional tone.

“You need to come down to the Maple Bay Recreational Area. There was a shootout. We got the poor kid, he shot himself after…” Another pause, and Saul’s hand tightens audibly on the phone receiver. He’s dreading what he’s about to hear, and it makes him sick that he isn’t surprised at what he hears.

“Selena ran ahead when we got into the woods, I guess. I have no idea how she beat us... We heard gunshots, and… He shot Selena. She’s dead, Saul.”

* * *

 

He’s running through the woods like some kind of animal, tearing through brush and mud churned up by the rain. Everything is green and so, so alive after the water had broken through. Perhaps he’d like to stop and smell the literal and figurative flowers along the way, but panic is gripping his heart far too tightly and he knows he can’t stop running.

He’s sweating, his grip slippery where he holds a nineteen millimeter glock as if his life depends on it. Well, he supposes that right now, his life  _ does _ depend on it. Just as much as his life depends on getting to that fucking manhole--

“Vince! Vince, stop!”

He spins around so fast that his back slams against the giant rock that serves as a marker to finding the manhole in the first place. He raises the gun just as a woman comes into the clearing, her eyes wide and hands up in front of her. She looks like Jazmin, but it’s someone else he remembers vaguely seeing around the the neighborhood, but she fucking  _ found _ him! How?!

“Vince, put the gun d--”

_ Blood. _

He fires. He hears her hit the ground, but doesn’t see it. He’s looking around like a trapped animal, hearing someone else crashing through the woods towards him. He’s trapped, he’s stuck, he’s caught--

_ More. _

The barrel of the glock is still warm from the recent discharge when he places it against his sweating temple. He doesn’t tremble, doesn’t hesitate, though there’s carnal fear roaring in his gut. He feels… calm, almost, on the exterior. Determined.

A gunshot wakes him up.

He jolts, throwing off his balance and spilling himself out of a steel folding chair. The noise of the chair scraping is drowned out by his own dry heaving, and when he pushes himself up to his hands and knees, he spits up bile onto a dirty hardwood floor.

What the  _ fuck _ was that?

Robert pushes himself onto his knees, running a bare arm across his mouth to wipe it. He immediately worries where his jacket is, why he’s only in his t-shirt, and where the hell he is. Seriously, what the hell?

He’s in a living room, but it’s not his. It’s lacking any sort of decor, and the old wallpaper is peeling down to the drywall. The floors are covered in a layer of dirt and dust, and the only furniture is a messy organization of folding chairs, old couches, and deflated arm chairs. three couches are arranged around a low coffee table that’s covered in beer bottles, rolling papers, and pill bottles. The couches are covered in people, all in various states of unconscious, and there’s a skeleton of a woman trembling with a crack pipe clutched in her hands. Her wide eyes immediately snap to him when he moves, and a smile takes her toothless face. Wordlessly (can she even talk?) she offers him the pipe despite being all the way across the room from him. He hears talking in another room, the hum of a microwave and someone coughing through a doorway next to him in the kitchen. He can hear the thump of what sounds like dubstep coming from somewhere, and the bass of it shakes the foundation of the old house.

He knows where he is.

Well, that isn’t true. He has no idea where he is, but he knows what kind of place he’s at. He’s in a drug house, and he itches at his arm as he stands and tries to find his jacket. The woman makes a noise that kind of sounds like his name, but he just ignores her. It’s not like she can even stand to get to him. She’s way too blown out to do anything but watch him in an unnerving, erratic sort of way, her eyes darting around and unable to focus completely on him.

He finds his jacket on the floor behind one of the couches, picking it up and checking his pockets. Keys, wallet, phone, Swiss army knife. All good. He feels himself relax at that, even if his phone is dead and his wallet is empty of cash. At least he can get out of here.

“Hey, Robbie! Where ya goin’, dude?”

He pauses halfway to the front door, half turning to see a man leaning unsteadily in the kitchen doorway. He must have been the one coughing. He has a plate of pizza rolls that have all been overheated to the point of their insides leaking out onto the chipped plate. He doesn’t seem to notice how hot they still are though, popping one in his mouth as if he’s numb to the feeling. And judging on how unfocused his eyes are, he’s pretty far gone.

“Goin’ out for air,” he supplies, the lie smooth. He knows he can’t say  _ leaving _ ; drug houses don’t work like that. No, even saying he’s going out for air gets a suspicious look. The woman on the couch looks between him and the man in the doorway, the man on the couch beside her coughing on a snore.

The man just gives him a nod, and he’s freed.

He keeps his pace leisurely as he exits, finding his truck parked crooked on a patch of overgrown grass. The house he was in is a two-story colonial that was probably a nice place at one point, but the windows are boarded and there’s a repo sign on the door that closes with an old creak. It seems to be the only building still standing in this neighborhood, and he hears the distant barking of a dog. It’s dark, probably the middle of the night, and he climbs into his truck to get a read on the clock.

Four thirty-seven. 

He takes a breath, knowing the second he turns the engine, there could be a dozen high bastards running out at him. But his phone’s dead, he has no idea where he is, and his mouth is dry and his head hurts and holy fuck why is his arm so itchy--

He takes a breath, turns the key, and immediately throws his truck into drive. His truck is old and definitely not fast, but he manages to get onto the two-track before he sees the door to the house swing open. They don’t have a gun, or at least don’t shoot it, and Robert just happened to pick the right direction, because he finds his way to a two-way highway.

Considering he still isn’t sure where he is, his phone’s dead, and he doesn’t even have a car charger for it, he finds a motel and pulls in. It’s a Motel 6, nothing close to fancy, but the office is still open. It’s dead, giving him a hint that it’s probably a weekday.

God, he doesn’t even know what day it is.

A bell dings over his head as he enters, and the clerk behind the counter looks up from her book. She pushes her reading glasses down, giving the brief image of a disappointed grandmother before she snaps into professional mode.

“How can I help you, sir?”

“Room for today. Just me,” he mutters, pulling out his wallet. He may be out of cash, but he finds his credit card and hands it over, along with his license. She types it all into the computer, sliding a key card back with the cards he gave her.

“You’re in sixteen. Checkout’s tomorrow at eleven.”

“Thanks. You got a phone charger?”

She blinks at him, though rifles through a drawer behind the desk before handing him a tangled phone charger, as he asked. “Bring it back when you check out.”

He mumbles a thanks, knowing he’s filthy and probably looks like shit, suddenly wanting nothing else but a shower and a good night’s sleep. Sixteen is on the first level, but it’s an indoor room without an exterior door. The window’s blocked by a bulky air conditioning unit, and he keeps the curtains closed as he flips on the lights. It’s not a  _ nice _ room, but there’s a bed and a bathroom, and that’s all he can really ask for.

He goes into the bathroom first, realizing only now how bad he had to piss. But when he moves to wash his hands, he does the brave thing and looks at his reflection.

Robert looks just about as bad as he thought he did. His hair’s a greasy, unwashed mess, there are heavy bags under his eyes, his lips are chapped and mouth dry, his clothes dirty and old, and...  He feels his stomach lurch as he looks down, poking at his skin as if hoping it’s going to vanish. But it’s there, and he starts to tremble in… fear? Disgust? Shit, he doesn’t even know. He doesn’t even know how they got there. Well, no, he  _ does _ , he just doesn’t know why or when.

There are track marks on his arm.

He immediately gets a cup of water, downing it before going into the main room. He grabs the charger and plugs in his phone next to the bed before he paces back into the bathroom, ripping his clothes off as if they burn.

The track marks are the only new marks on his body, and he knows he should be relieved about that, but he’s still horrified at the fact that he has them. The last time he did heroin, he almost died in the basement of a guy named Tim’s apartment building in Brooklyn. He doesn’t have much willpower in the first place, but with how hard the highs hit… It’s almost impossible to stop. The fact that he can’t remember what day it is or where he is is proof enough that he’s probably been riding a heroin high for a while.

He takes a shower to feel a little more human again, the water as hot as it will go and the water pressure so hard that he wonders if it’ll bruise him. He realizes he doesn’t care, and his clothes reek of pot and cigarette smoke, so he stays naked as he heads back to the bed with another cup of water for a mouth that he can’t keep from being dry.

He’s hungry, stomach gurgling in neglect, but he isn’t up to tracking down food. Motel 6 isn’t the kind of place that has room service either, and even if it does, he’s willing to bet it’s disgusting. So he just pulls the starchy sheets back and crawls into bed, grabbing his charging phone and hitting the power button.

It takes it a while to boot up, and he’s reminded of the fact that he probably needs a new one and that he doesn’t actually have enough money or good enough credit to get one. So whatever.

It’s already six in the morning and his phone immediately starts buzzing in his hand with all of the messages and missed calls he’s gotten. It’s overwhelming, and he clears the alerts before going to a text thread with Saul that’s been absolutely blowing up.

Most of the texts are variations of him checking in; one a day for the past five weeks. But it’s the most recent one that gives him pause, brows furrowed as he clicks a link that’s been texted to him.

_ SEARCH FOR MISSING TEEN ENDS IN TRAGEDY _

It’s the internet copy of the Maple Bay Times; an article dated for May twenty-fifth. He checks the date on his phone to find that the twenty-fifth was yesterday, and he quickly does the math to find out he’s been away from home for four days. Fuck.

He continues on to the article after a moment of thanking Past Robert for not only installing a doggy door for Betsy, but also for auto-feeders and an auto-water...er? Regardless, he’s certain that Betsy’s been fine. She’s probably happier without him around, honestly. She’s been acting so odd lately…

The article is short and to the point, something Robert is grateful for. That seems to be the only positive about it though, as he soon learns that Vince ran away, the cops found drugs in his room at home, and then he ran into the woods and shot himself after shooting an unlucky Selena Graves. Saul’s wife. It happened when they chased Vince into the Maple Bay Recreational Area after reports that he had gone missing.

_ A memorial service for Selena Graves will be head this Friday, May twenty-seventh, six pm at Maple Bay Baptist Church. She leaves behind her husband, Saul Graves, and an eight year old son. _

Robert clicks back to his text history with Saul, finding only one text under that.

_ It would mean a lot to me if you could make it. Not sure what’s going on with you.  _

He sighs heavily, taking a moment to stare up at the mottled ceiling. A soft “fuck” leaves his lips as he takes another breath, and instead of replying to Saul, he opens up his text history with Vince. The latest message was from last week, followed by a series of question marks by Robert.

_ can’t deal 4 u anymore man sorry _

What happened?

It’s all too much for him, and he feels anxiety closing in around him. But he needs answers, and he opens up his GPS app to at least find out where the hell he is. It takes a minute for the location signal to register, and he takes a quiet solace in the fact that he at least knows where he is. Sort of.

He’s about two blocks away from the strip mall witch shop.

That’s what reminds him of how he got here. He had walked in after checking the mail, only for Betsy to bark and his anger to flare so much that he threw a fucking table. He had come to his senses enough to realize what was happening, to remember what the apparently  _ false _ Joseph told him about the Dover Ghost feeding and trying to make Robert possessed. He did some research on the symptoms and then the nightmares got worse, he needed to get high and ran out of stuff, and since Vince wouldn’t deal to him, he drove all the way out here and went to some shitty garage band rave to find a dealer and ended up at a damn  _ crack house _ for four blissed-out days.

And now he’s here.

He spends a few minutes sifting through emails and other text messages to make sure he hasn’t missed much work. He’s going to have to get home and pull an all-nighter in order to catch up before the month is over and his deadline hits, but for now, that’s the least of his worries. His anxiety is still choking him, but his eyelids are too heavy for panic to keep open and he falls asleep with his phone on his chest.

He has a dream about running. About chasing. He catches, he’s caught, and he wakes up in a cold sweat to the echo of a gunshot. It’s the same sort of dream he had earlier, though neither of them gave him any details to draw from. He just feels like he’s being watched, and he can’t get that news story out of his head. He can’t believe Vince would shoot himself, let alone someone else. And for it to happen in the woods…

Robert still can’t shake the feeling of being watched as he dresses in his dirty clothes and heads out. It’s about noon by now, and his fingers are trembling with hunger. Or maybe anxiety. Or maybe the shakes are from coming down after such a wild high. No matter what it is, it’s annoying, and he lights up a cigarette to smoke in his truck to try to quell it. He turns the radio up and opens the windows to pretend that everything’s fine.

He finds a McDonald’s easily enough, pulling into a parking spot rather than wait in the abhorrent drive-thru line that’s reaching to the road. He knows he looks, smells, and sounds like shit, but it’s McDonald’s for fuck’s sake. He’s probably one of the healthier people that are here right now.

He tosses his cigarette into the ash bin outside before he goes in, taking his respected place in line. It’s busy with kids fresh off daycare, and he can still hear their muffled shrieks of delight through the glass door that leads to a nineties-era play place. The woman in front of him is trying to juggle three little brats while she orders, two of them wanting to go play and the third in her arms and peering at Robert from over her shoulder.

He makes a face at the kid. That’s just what you do.

The baby just stares blankly. There’s a line of drool down their chin, pooling on the poor mother’s shoulder.

Ah, whatever.

She finishes her order and somehow manages to pay so Robert can take his turn. He has no idea how much he has on his credit card until he hits his limit, especially since he woke up with two hundred dollars in cash just  _ gone _ . He hopes no one in that damn crack house accepted his PayPal.  He orders a McChicken, fries, and a water because one healthy thing out of three was probably good for him, and he picks the booth farthest from the play place as he can. It offers little comfort and the Top 40 music they have playing isn’t very good, but he eats fast and makes due.

He’s obnoxiously slurping the last of his water through his straw when someone passes him to use the bathroom. Not three seconds later, they backtrack, steps a little uneven to a trained eye.

Robert looks up from his drink to see the Pizza Roll Guy.

He looks around to find that Robert’s corner is empty before he leans against the table, so close that he can smell the booze on him. The size of his pupils and the fact that he’s wearing a long sleeve are a dead giveaway to what he’s high on right now.

“Did you go to the fucking cops?” he hisses, struggling to keep his voice down. A kid just happens to start throwing a temper tantrum over an ice cream cone at the same time, so he’s covered.

It’s been a long time since Robert has dealt with drug house people. He knows that it’s a cesspool of paranoia and mistrust, and if anyone’s sober, it’s a cause for concern. Strangers, especially. And to those people from the night before ( _ days _ before, more likely) Robert Small is very much a stranger.

He has to be careful with this.

“No, ‘course not. Just wanted some air.”

The guy’s hands tense on the table and he grips the edge. For everyone’s sake, Robert hopes it’s bolted to the floor. “Where’d you go?”

“Motel Six.” He knows better than to lie. Well, at least to tell half-truths. “Got a room, took a nap. No offense, but I didn’t wanna sleep in a metal chair.”

Pizza Roll Guy doesn’t even blink. He just keeps staring, breaths short and labored, pupils the size of a pin prick. He’s shot up out of his mind, and it’s a wonder he’s in his own head enough to be at McDonald’s. Then again, when Robert checks back up front, he sees a few vaguely familiar faces. Most of them look more sober than this guy, but they’re obviously a little baked on  _ something _ . Everything, probably.

“Trey!” one of them yells. He seems to be the most sober. “You want medium or large fries?”

Trey doesn’t react for a moment, though he snaps out of his trance as if he’s been shocked. “Yeah!” is all he shouts back, not answering the question, before he gives Robert a suspicious look and ducks back into the bathroom.

Robert knows when to make his exit, and he knows he needs to make it now. The water helped his dry mouth a bit, sure, but he pitches the entire cup into the trash with the rest of his wrappers. His quick escape, of course, is blocked by a parade of kids sprinting past to get to the play place, and by the time he gets into fresh air, he feels like he’s about to have a panic attack.

He’s too old for this.

He steps aside of the doors as he waits for the parking lot to clear enough that he can book it for his truck, reaching into his pocket to light up another cigarette. He’s wasted enough time in this damn town, and he just wants to get home to Betsy and his bed.

He takes one drag before he’s kissing asphalt instead.

He has no idea what just happened, but he’s choking on the smoke he inhaled the wrong way as he feels fists hammering away at him. Whoever just tackled him to the ground is currently beating the shit out of him, and just when he thinks he’s stopped coughing long enough to get a leg under him and fight back, there’s a hand in his hair that’s pulling his head back before slamming it into the blue line of a handicapped parking spot.

“Fuckin’ snitch! Who’d you tell?!”

Robert feels his neck pop and a few strands of hair rip free as his face is peeled off the ground before being slammed back down. He tastes blood, and the third time he’s introduced to earth, he feels sharp pain bloom in his nose and hears a dull  _ crack _ of cartilage.

_ Fuck this. _

Above the man’s yelling (he’s pretty sure it’s Trey) he hears bystanders screaming and sees an employee (a tiny girl, what was she thinking?) grab Trey by the arms and pull him off. Someone else helps Robert up, yelling for napkins for the blood that’s running down his face, but he shoves the good samaritan off and stomps towards his truck.

He doesn’t want to run away. He wants to fight, the violence lighting him up and making him blind to all but the smell of blood, but he knows better. Sure, he can take on one heroin-laced son of a bitch, but he can’t take on whatever gang the guy likely has ties to. He just gets in his truck and drives, punching a fist against the side of his truck as he stomps the gas. He swings unsteadily into traffic, driving with his knees as he pulls out another cigarette with skinned palms and pats his pocket for his lighter.

Motherfucker knocked his lighter on the ground.

He has half a mind to turn around and go back, but it’s a bad idea and the traffic is too bad for a U-turn anyway. So he blasts Tom Waits and curses himself for even coming here, merging into the lane for the expressway he needs to get back to Maple Bay.

He’s way too fucking old for this.

The light’s red, so he lets his gaze wander, trying to shake the fury out of it. His nose  _ kills _ and he knows he should go to a clinic, but he’s scared to death what they’ll find in his system. He doesn’t even want to know. But his eyes fall on a little strip mall with a liquor store, a Family Dollar, a movie rental place that now has a sign up that they’re going out of business, and then the simple sign that says SPIRITUAL GOODS.

The light turns green, and he starts to move forward, wants to move forward, but he grits his teeth and squeals his tires over the curb as he turns into the strip mall, pulling into a parking spot in front of the witch’s store.

This is what he came here for originally. He might as well get something worthwhile done while he’s here. He wipes blood on his shirt and tosses his jacket in the passenger seat before he steps out, hesitating a moment before the door. It’s glass, with a large window storefront, but it’s so covered in hanging gems and stained glass that it’s almost impossible to see. But when his hand touches the knob, he can see into the shop between gaps of an OPEN sign and a glass likeness of an evil eye to notice that the shopkeep is standing on the other side, looking dead at him.

“Go away.” He hears it through the glass.

His grip on the knob tightens. The man reaches to lock it, to flip the OPEN sign to CLOSED, but Robert yanks the door open first. He came here for answers, damn it, and this man isn’t going to make him leave this time.

The cockatoo screeches from somewhere in the store, “Hello!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now remember last time, when I said this was almost over? Well, I re-worked the plot a bit and we're gonna be here a bit longer. It's halfway over, yes, but it's got more than 3-4 chapters left in it. Also, on that note, you can still send me Dadsonas, but they won't be needed for a bit. Gotta get that sweet plot first.
> 
> Let me know what you think, and I hope it was worth the wait <3 I know I left off at a weird spot, but I promise, the next chunk will make up for it.


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